


Grenada

by LCWells



Series: Voyage To The Bottom of The Sea [2]
Category: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
Genre: Gen, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: In the weeks before the invasion of the Caribbean island Grenada, Lee Crane helps to gain information for Washington. At the same time, Admiral Harriman Nelson is in the nation's Capital testifying in front of Congress, and visiting an old friend. Major Reginald Owen (from Operation Corporate) is also in Grenada - with his dying wife.This story was written in 1995Please forgive typos. I'm OCRing in the paper zine.





	1. Wednesday, October 12, 1983

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note LC Wells 
> 
>  
> 
> April 13, 1995 
> 
> A novel like this doesn't come about without a great deal of support, and a great deal of work, It took over a year to write, and I have give credit to my friends who stuck by me. 
> 
> First on the list is my editor, Kathy Agel, who wanted very much to read this story, even when she only got dribs for months; my friends, SP and ND, who listened to random comments (for months), then edited the first and second drafts for continuity and character changes. Thanks go out to GEnie contacts; MT for his military help, AH for sharing with me what it was like to be in Grenada in December of 1983, a month after our invasion, and to NM who looked up all the gory details on hepatitis. To SS for never giving up on my story, and to all the characters who decided that this would take up all my spare time until it was done. Thank you all very, very much. Now, I hope Major Owen will leave me in peace (and take The Boys with you, please...). 
> 
> This is a stand-alone novel. Please don't feel that you need to read Operation Corporate to enjoy it. 
> 
> Setting any book in an historical setting takes a great deal of research. Once you have that under your belt you can start to structure your plot and wind the research into the lives of your  
> characters, and hopefully come out with something people would like to read. I regret that in this novel and in Operation Corporate, I didn't have the opportunity to visit the places I placed the story (though I did consider it with Grenada. This can be called "going too far" in search of authenticity).
> 
> Also, please remember, this is fiction. There is no proof the NSC had anything to do with the Grenadian invasion. With the exception of the VBS crew, all the characters are original and not based on any living or dead persons. 
> 
> There is a bibliography attached of sources that I checked when I began writing this novel. A great deal of the information on Grenada is still classified, so I worked with the available press information and a number of books that have come out in the years afterwards, many of which contradict each other. For the purposes of the story, I have kept with the facts that the main telephone lines were out of order for several days and no one could get information in or out of the island for the three or so days leading up to the invasion. The US troops went in expecting to meet 10,000 Cubans and found far fewer; they expected far more in the way of heavy weapons and found very few. 
> 
> I hope you readers will enjoy this sequel (son-of) co Operation Corporate and will send your comments to Kathy to pass on. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
>  
> 
> Editor's Note Kathy Agel 
> 
> April 21, 199S 
> 
> "I'm writing a sequel to Operation Corporate." 
> 
> I nearly jumped through my monitor when I read that message in my GEnie e-mail queue. 
> 
> Hearing that (LC) was setting the story during the US invasion of Grenada and using the character of Major Owen a.k.a. "Major Hunk"), placing him right in the thick of things, only made me want it more. "I want it," was all I said. 
> 
> "It won't be as long as the last one," she warned me. "l'm not doing another nove1." 
> 
> "I don't care. I want it anyway." 
> 
> She was right -- it isn't as long as Corporate. But it isn't that much shorter. Like Corporate, it's meaty, full of interesting story and intriguing -- and dead-on accurate -- characterization. No, you  
> don't have to read Corporate to understand this novel, but reading it will enhance your enjoyment, and give you a few more insights into the characters. 
> 
> So welcome to Grenada, the third Below the Surface Special Edition. I think you'll enjoy it as much as I have. 
> 
> Now to get her to write another one

The _Lambi_ rocked gently on the surface of the Caibbean sea in the hot sunshine. A brawny man in his late thirties leaned on the railing, his body burned a leatherly brown by the sun. His long, dark hair had bleached gold highlights and brushed the worn, sweat-stained collar of his light cotton shirt.

Behind him, he heard the cew laugh as they talked. The man had rented the boat once a week for four months and was, by now, on good terms with most of the three-man crew.

One of the black men, wiry, thin, wearing worn jeans and a striped shirt along with his battered captain's cap from an obscure yacht club, came forward, a sweating beer in each hand.

“Major?" he called with a heavy accent.

The fisherman turned his head, his hazel eyes squinting against the sun that was shining in them. "Dealli?"

The captain held out the bottle. "Want one?"

The man took the brown bottle with his left hand, the heavy gold wedding ring flashing in the sunlight, and twisted off the cap. "Thank you, Dealli. The sun's over the yardarm?" His crisp British accent made the words seem less mild then they were as if they were a statement, not a question.

The black man smiled broadly. "My ship, my rules, Major Owen, sah! I think I join you." He twisted open the other bottle and leaned on the railing, tipping the bottle to finish the beer inside.

The major grinned as he sipped.

Dealli waved at the fishing rod shoved in a holder at the man's feet. "No fish today, eh, Major?"

",Just have to let you have them if I do," the man commented. "I'm not a tuna eater, even if they are running."

"You wife? She like tuna? The yellow-fins you catch?" Dealli's voice had sobered.

The major looked out over the water, the tension back in his face. "She's...not eating tuna right now."

"She better, Major Owen? You came to Grenada to make her better."

"I brought her here because she wanted it," Owen said soberly, staring at the sparkling blue water. "She always wanted to see the Caribbean."

"Who say she die?" Dealli demanded, waving his bottle. He tapped the other man on the forearm. "You take up that charm which Mother Keal make for you?"

Owen bit his lip, then grinned ruefully. "Yes, but the hospital had a problem with the chicken's feet. l think they threw it out."

"Hey, you tell them first-rate charm!" Dealli indignantly replied, but his eyes laughed. "Your lady get better, Major, then you go back to England, live happy ever after. You see. When you get back to Grenada, she be well."

"I hope she will be, Dealli, I wish..." Owen said in a tired tone. "What's that?" He pointed to a tiny dot on the horizon. It grew larger. It looked like another fishing boat coming directly towards theirs. "We have company."

The captain shaded his eyes as he looked at the ship. “Dunno the boat," he said with a slight shrug. "Not a ship I know. Maybe, Jacko know. Jacko!"

"Another fishing boat," Jacko called from the cabin. "Radio says they out for tuna too. No problem there, Captain."

Owen glanced at the sea. "He's coming at quite a pace," he murmured. "And straight for us, Dealli."

"We leave," Dealli decided. "Find you tuna somewhere else. Maybe pirates."

"Pirates? In 1983?"

"Modern pirates. With big guns like Americans own up north."

Owen picked up the rod to reel in the line. He heard Deal” go back inside the pilothouse and start up the engine, which sputtered and died. A mumble of curses and it started up again, but at a dull roar rather than the purr which it had started with.

And painted basically the same colors but with more men, all of whom were cradling machine guns. The man in the prow shifted to his ready position.

Owen dodged to the opposite side of the boat behind the cabin when a bullet splintered the wooden railing where he had abandoned the fishing rod. "Jesus!" He went flat on the deck as the man opened fire. He heard Dealli scream as the bullets perforated the wooden pilothouse. Looking up, he saw the captain's hat roll out of the open door, the lining saturated with blood.

Sounds like an M-l6; Owen thought as adrenaline washed through him. What the hell is going on here?

The last crewman came running around the corner heading for the opposite side from the pirates who were slowing up as they closed on the Lambi. He tripped over Major Owen and crashed to the deck, wailing. Owen cursed. Reaching out, he grabbed the crewman and shook him. "Where is Jacko?" he snarled into the man's face.

The man's eyes were wide and horrified as he pointed to the cabin above where the dead captain was.

Owen got to his knees, hearing the grapping hooks tearing into the side of the fishing boat.

Any thought of going up to the cabin vanished when he heard a friendly hail from above and a distinctly Spanish accent answer coming from the invaders, followed by the rattle of a machine gun.

He heard pounding footsteps and a soldier came around the corner. He lifted his gun to fire.

Owen realized he was about to be murdered in cold blood, and threw himself overboard, feeling the sting of a bullet on his calf. He sank as deeply as he could, kicking off his tennis shoes.

Behind him, the soldier fired into the water, hitting the paddling crewman who screamed and flopped as the bullets tore threw his cotton shirt. He went limp.

The soldier sprayed the ocean again, not seeing Major Owen's body reappear.

Another man joined the soldier. "That is it?" he asked in Spanish.

The soldier waved his hand to the ocean around them, and rattled off an explanation.

The questioner scanned the sea then shrugged. "You say you hit the other man too? The sharks will get him. Leave him."

"Yes, sir," the soldier acknowledged.

"Go above and help dispose of the captain. You will be staying on for the crew," the man ordered. He walked around to the other side where the captain of the pirate ship was calling.

With a final scan of the sparkling ocean, the soldier followed him, hoisting his gun on his shoulder.

***

"Periscope down," Lieutenant Commander Chip Morton ordered "Navigation, come to course— “

"That's not a good idea, Commander," another voice said briskly. "The show's over there. Didn't you say they were all dead?"

Morton felt an instant flash of sheer dislike against the owner of the voice. “We have to make sure, Mr. Carmondy."

Richard Carmondy smiled back at him, the expression not reaching his dark eyes. "l thought you were sure."

Out of the corner of his eye, Morton saw the twelve-man control room crew studiously watching their controls, ignoring the controversy with the exception of the sonar man, Kowalski, who was staring malevolently at the curly-haired civilian. He saw Chip's look and turned back to his console, his shoulders tense with anger.

"We've just spotted piracy on the high seas with the murder of two, maybe three men," Morton retorted smoothly, his voice as cold as Carmondy's. "It's possible the man in the life preserver is still alive."

"My job is to get to Grenada unnoticed," Carmondy persisted, laying his hand on the cold iron railing of the periscope island. "You can't compromise the mission. My orders--"

"We can't abandon a man at sea," Morton snapped. "Helmsman, come to course--"

"What's happening?" Captain Crane, the commander of submarine Seaview came through the rear door of the control room and walked forward, noticing the crew had their heads down attending to their duties. "Mr. Morton?"

"There's been a hijacking, sir," Morton replied, turning to him. "Small fishing boat, the i, out for tuna from the look of her rods and net, was pirated by another ship. The hijackers had machine guns, and moved like military."

"Your Exec was about to go the rescue," Carmondy added lazily. "OnIy there's no one left to rescue."

Crane's eyes flashed angrily for a moment at Carmondy's tone. "Is that true, Mr. Morton?"

"I’m not sure, sir," Morton said coolly. "One man dived overboard with a life preserver. Another man followed him as a soldier started shooting. The first man was machine-gunned as he was on the life preserver and the other man came up for air right next to the body. He's hanging there, out of view of the _Lambi_ , playing dead."

"If he's really alive," Carmondy said dryly.

"How far is this i from us?" Crane asked, ignoring the comment.

"A mile due west, sir, and heading fast for the horizon along with the pirate. They should be out of sight in ten minutes or so," Morton concluded formally, seeing Carmondy's frown as he studied Captain Crane's expression.

"Will the swimmer last that long?" Crane asked seriously.

"You can't be thinking of bringing him aboard!" Carmondy protested. "I have to protest, Captain Crane!"

"Captain?" Kowalski turned from the sonar console, his headphones half off

Crane turned. "Yes, Kowalski?. "

"I've got numerous echoes coming in, sir. Sharks probably," the rating said soberly. "They're headed for the life preserver."

"Ahead one-third," Crane ordered decisively. "Mr. Morton, head us for the castaway."

"Yes, sir," Morton said his enthusiasm showing through his calm. He didn't look at Carmondy as he swung around. "Helm, turn two-three-zero." Clicking the microphone, he ordered engineering, “Ahead one-third."

“I'll be reporting this to Washington," Carmondy said through tight lips. "If the Cubans find we're out here--"

"I'll make sure our reports are filed together," Crane responded, staring harshly at the man.

"No mission is worth abandoning a man at sea, Mr. Carmondy."

"Captain, the _Lambi_ is out of range and we are rapidly approaching the swimmer," Chief

Sharkey reported from beside Kowalski. On the operator's screen were the clear marks of the lifesaver and the circling sharks.

"Get a party up to pick him up, chief," Crane ordered

"Aye, aye, sir!"

***

Admiral Nelson hated hospitals. Over the ten years since Seaview had been commissioned, he'd had to visit his officers and crewmen far too often in the sterile intimidating buildings. From the minute he stepped off the elevator and smelled the cold antiseptic in the air, he wanted to leave.

Finding B corridor, he turned right and stopped abruptly.

Some of the patients were in the hallway, tied up to intravenous drips. Their glazed eyes and bony bodies said that they were out of pain but also out of consciousness. Dying was a long drawn-out process which made Nelson's skin crawl.

"Admiral?" a clear but muted voice called down the hallway.

The woman was leaning out of the hospital room at the far end of the corridor as she waved. "Down here."

Nelson reflected as he walked down the corridor that this occasion was as hard on Linda Gable as it was for him.

"How is Peter?” Nelson asked, dropping his voice as he came up to her.

She stepped outside the room and pulled the door nearly shut. "They're only letting people in for five minutes at a time so I'd better tell you the details out here." Her usually crisp voice was dulled with fatigue and Nelson noted her face was washed-out, her mascara smudged and the high color in her cheeks was from blush, not good health. She had been Senator Peter Dawber's principal aide for the last three years, and was one of the most professional women he knew in politics.

"What happened to Pete?" the Admiral demanded

"Senator Dawber collapsed in his office a couple of days ago," she replied. "The paramedics and the Senate physician came right up, but it was almost too late. They're saying his heart just gave out, Admiral Nelson."

"But what about now?" Nelson questioned. "People can see him ."

She smiled wryly with trace of bitterness. "Yes, he can have visitors, but it doesn't do much good. All that's keeping him alive are the machines."

"His family..."

"His daughter Emily is on her way from Alaska but his only son was killed fifteen years ago.

Pete keeps calling for him. He keeps calling me Emily," she concluded brushing back her hair. Her eyes showed frustration and despair.

"Can I see him?" Nelson persisted. He didn't like seeing any woman this defeated, especially a friend.

She nodded "Come in."

Walking in, Nelson noted immediately that Dawber had a private room. One side was curtained off and Gable's papers were strewn over a makeshift desk with two phones.

Seeing his old friend in the bed, Nelson remembered the shock he felt seeing Dawber last time. Arthritis had shrunken the eighty-year-old man from over six feet to five-eleven, and the huge hands which had thrown championship winning footballs were gnarled and withered. The dark eyes were dim as they gazed out on the fading leaves outside the plate-glass window.

“Pete? Pete?" Nelson called.

The man stirred and rolled his head, his gaze on Nelson. "Who...is that?"

"Peter, it's Harry. Harry Nelson," he replied gently, coming up beside the hospital bed.

Dawber's breath rattled in his throat. "Who?"

"Pete?"

"I had hoped he'd know you," Linda said softly from the side of the bed. "You go back so far."

"Thirty years, to Korea," Ne1son said. "He was running for the House of Representatives and—“

"You were a war hero who decided to become his friend," she cut in. "It gave the boost to his career that got him elected."

Nelson glanced up under his thick eyebrows. "Is that what he told you?"

"Endlessly. So I went back and looked up the newspaper articles and found out the other side," she chuckled. "I couldn't believe you were as good as he said."

Nelson shifted uncomfortably. "He lied."

Dawber looked out the window again, ignoring the soft-voiced conversation.

"We'd better go," Linda urged. "Visiting hours are almost over. If you'd wait a moment..." She went into the other room and began gathering papers.

Nelson went outside and found most of the patients who had been in the corridor were back in their rooms. The nurses were collecting food nays to take into the room.

Gable joined him seconds later, swinging a can3el coat over her crumpled green suit.

They walked up the corridor, Gable nodding to a nurse who was heading for the Senator's room,

"He has twenty-four hour care?" Nelson asked.

"Yes, of course. No one wants to lose the Senator," Gable reproved. "Did you come all the way from Santa Barbara for this, Admiral?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid it's more mercenary than that. I spoke with him a week and a half ago about visiting Washington--"

"I remember."

"But I’ve heard in the meantime that the Nelson Institute isn't getting the funding for one of our special projects," Nelson concluded. "So, I asked for a meeting in front of the subcommittee.”

"I thought that we'd managed to short-circuit their interference a year ago," she murmured.

"This was the research grant for the follow up on the coral reef exploration, not for our Defense work," Nelson explained. "They'll pay for torpedoes, but not anything that might protect the environment."

"The environment?"

"The oil and gas companies are exploring off the Florida coast and in the Caribbean. Should they find any traces of oil shale, they'll try to open it for exploitation. The coral reef ecosystem will be shot."

"Ah, I see. They have powerful lobbies here in Washington. It's short-sighted of Congress to not look at the environmentalists," she said as they stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor.

"But Congress always has been short-sighted. Currently they're on another witch-hunt for fat in the budget.”

"I have to convince the House committee to justify the money," Nelson said grimly.

"Otherwise--"

"Without funding, the sponges will die out. You might have to ask for outside help, which means letting outsiders into the Nelson Institute, or..." she mused.

"Become a Department of Defense installation with all that entails," the Admiral agreed. "I was hoping Pete could help."

"He'll be no help now, Admiral," she said as they crossed the parking lot. "Can I give you a ride to your hotel . "

"Thank you. I'm staying at the Four Seasons."

"Better change that," she said automatically, her political instincts cutting in. "You’re coming as a supplicant to the committee, Admiral Nelson. You need to be as humble as possible. Try a Holiday Inn. You'll get all the comfort without the stigma of being a spendthrift." She unlocked the door to her small Chevette and slid in, unlocking the other door. He got in. "I'll help you any way I can, Admiral."

"I'm staying at the Four Seasons. Room Five Twenty-two."

***

Seaview rose in a turmoil of white foam, yellow shark repellant and heavy waves that made the life preserver rock heavily.

Morton watched through the periscope as the swimmer pushed the dead body of the crewman off the life preserver and got on top, paddling to get away from the dead man.

Slapping up the handles, he strolled forward to where Crane and Carmondy were watching the rescue through the tall windows that made up the upper half of the submarine's nose.

"Well, they've almost reached him," Crane commented.

Morton nodded. "He saw them coming and is just holding on. The shark repellent we put out seems to be working."

"It was close, though. Another five minutes and the sharks would have closed in on him," the captain said soberly.

"What's going on out there?" Carmondy broke in with a puzzled tone . He squinted as he leaned forward, staring intently out the clear glass.

Morton saw Sharkey throw back his head, laughing, while Kowalski waved as they came alongside the live preserver. Sharkey and Kowalski enthusiastically hauled the stranger aboard, almost overturning the small raft. "Must be someone we know," he murmured with a slight frown on his face.

"Someone who they approve of, too," Crane commented. "Can you make out the face?"

"Too far away," Morton said.

The small raft headed back to Seaview at a sharp pace.

"Why don't we go up and see who it is?" Crane suggested.

They climbed out onto the main deck of the submarine, Carmondy following closely on their heels. The stiff breeze cooled their crisp khaki uniforms, despite the blazing sun in the cloudless sky. Crane set his cap more firmly on his head and raised his hand to shield his eyes.

"Can you see him?" Chip asked, doing the same.

By the time the rubber boat reached the submarine, Sharkey had thrown out a line for the deck crew to pull them in closer.

"Well, who is it?" Carmondy demanded.

Morton stared at the wet man, who was shaking his head in disbelief, then raised his hand to greet them. The commander's expression was one of sheer-disbelief. "I don't believe it."

"Believe it. What the hell is he doing up here?" Crane said with a laugh.

The man looked up at Crane and Morton and a slight smile cracked his tanned face.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain Crane?"

"Always a pleasure to see you, Major Owen," Crane said with open enthusiasm.

Owen stepped on board gingerly, his feet burning on the hot deck from his expression.

Despite being dressed only in a pair of rolIed-up and soaking Chinos and a torn shirt, he saluted smartly, British-style. "Major Reginald Owen, Third Commando Brigade, Royal Marines."

Crane returned the salute. "Welcome aboard. Let's get below before your feet turn to cooked hamburger."

He led the way with the wet man on his heels.

"Major Owen?" Carmondy murmured to Morton, his tone demanding. "Who is this man?"

"Later, Mr. Carmondy," Morton said shortly as he followed the others.

***

Reaching the bottom of the ladder into the control room, Morton asked sharply, "You're wounded?" He waved to a trickle of blood.

“They nicked me when they shot up the _Lambi_ ," Owen admitted. "I was more afraid of the pirates than the sharks right then.”

“Better get Doc Jamieson to see it,” Crane ordered, "Mr. Morton, get the deck party aboard and prepare to submerge. Previous course."

"Aye, Captain!" Morton said, clapping Owen on the shoulder as he passed him. "Nice to see you again, Reg."

"The same, Chip. I've never been so glad to see you all," Owen said with heartfelt relief.

Morton noticed that, to a man, the crew was grinning openly, enthusiastic about the visitor. Their faces went sober as his gaze passed over them.

Carmondy waited till Owen went down to Sick Bay accompanied by Sharkey, before walking up to Captain Crane who was plotting their course at the chart table. "Who is this man, Captain Crane?"

"Hmm?" Crane looked up, his expression tightening at Carmondy's tone. "Major Owen's a British commando, Captain. We last saw him, oh, eighteen months ago in the Falklands War."

"A commando from the Falklands? But what is he doing here?" Carmondy demanded.

"Maybe what we're doing?" Crane hazarded. "Keeping an eye on Grenada. It's part of the British Commonwealth, you know."

"It's going Communist," Carmondy said tightly. "That's why I've been ordered to investigate."

"Well, since the i was out of Grenada, you might do just as well to ask Owen. I'm sure he'll have a good grasp of the politics."

Carmondy looked doubtful. "What does a commando know about politics?"

Crane frowned and straightened, putting his grease pencil down on the chart. "He probably knows a lot more than you give him credit for. The Brits train them in politics as well as special operations. And in good manners as well."

The other man stiffened in offence. "When can I talk with him?"

"When he comes back up, Mr. Carmondy." Crane ended the discussion by making a mark on the chart, then turning to another chart to do some comparisons.

Carmondy walked into the nose and watched the water wash over the windows as the submarine submerged. Through the bubbles he saw the swishing tails of white sharks heading for the corpse. "I'll be back in a half-hour, Captain."

Morton moved over to the chart table from the nuclear readouts, and muttered in a low voice, "His going won't be soon enough for me."

"He's on everyone's nerves," Crane agreed. "Just hold on. We'll be off-loading him tomorrow. Why do you think Owen's here, Chip?"

"No idea. I'm sure Jamieson will send him back up as soon as he's done."

***

The ship's doctor, Lieutenant Commander William Jamieson, looked up from his book when the door to Sick Bay swung open. Seeing Owen, he put down the text and stared in disbelief. "Major Owen? I never thought I'd see you again!"

"You're looking better, Doctor," Owen smiled. "The last time I saw you--"

"I was just coming out of a case of Falklands' pneumonia," Jamieson said dryly, then came around the desk. "But what the hell are you doing in my Sick Bay?"

"He got shot," Sharkey called from behind. "And was in sea water for a good half-hour."

"Just a scratch." Owen dismissed it with a shrug.

Jamieson waved towards an examination table. "Sit down. Let me check it."

"l can get you some other clothes, Major," Sharkey suggested.

"Do that, thank you, Sharkey," Jamieson ordered absently as Owen sat down and rolled up his pants leg. The chief exited.

The bullet had torn through the chinos and scored the tanned skin. Jamieson examined the wound carefully, then walked over to the medicine cabinet for some antiseptic. "Just what you said, a scratch. I'1l clean it out and put a light Band-Aid on for a day or so,"

"I wonder if your chief will also bring back some shoes for me," Owen asked, flexing his calloused feet.

"Cold toes, Major?" Jamieson joked, coming back with cotton balls and iodine.

"I'm on leave from the service so you might as well call me Owen. Or Reg. Or whatever..."

Jamieson looked up in surprise. "On leave? Why?"

Owen hesitated for a second then slid his shirt off his left shoulder, leaving his chest and arm naked. "Got in the way of something nasty last January.”

Looking closely, Jamieson saw the exit scars of bullet wounds that went from the outer muscles to almost the middle of the chest. From the small puckers, the wounds must have been taken in the front, while the scars in back were wider. The wounds had been expertly sewn together and were just a tracery against the darkly-tanned skin.

"Nasty is a mild way of understating it," Jamieson said dryly. "The Falklands?"

"No. Belfast." Owen's tone brooked no more inquiries.

"Oh." Jamieson applied a small Band-Aid over the bullet score on the leg. "You've healed cleanly though?"

"I've got no problems now, with that arm," Owen said swinging off the table. "Had some sick leave and came down to Grenada to ..relax."

"Ah. Right." ,Jamieson stared at the man for a second, sensing that he had more to say but his normal reticence was stopping him. Owen had changed in the year and a half since they had seen him last. Back in the Falklands, he'd been suspicious, disgruntled and more than a little paranoid even before the invasion by Argentina. Now, he was almost relaxed. "Do you like Grenada? It's a nice place to visit, I hear."

"It is a beautiful place to be," Owen agreed. "You should see it. Like a postcard of paradise."

"Then, why aren't you a happy man, Major?" Jamieson asked quietly, not expecting an answer.

Owen hesitated, then raised his left hand. The gold ring shone. "Got a problem, Doctor--"

"You got married? " Jamieson said in disbelief. "Congratulations, Major! No problem in that--"

He was cut off by Sharkey's return with a pile of fresh clothing including shoes.

"I have to talk to you later, Jamie," Owen said softly.

"Later, Reg," Jamieson agreed, stepping back.

****

Owen felt the irritation of the scratchy khaki shirt on his suntanned shoulders. It fit snugly over his broad shoulders and was loose around the waist, He wondered which officer or chief had provided the garment for him. It had no insignia or markings.

He and Sharkey descended the winding staircase that led into the nose of the submarine.

Outside the water was a cool blue, the sunlight not reaching this far down. A plethora of fish could be seen caught in the headlamp in _Seaview_ ’s nose.

"Major! Over here," Crane hailed them, holding a coffee cup in one hand. He pulled back a chair and sat down at the small table. Sharkey disappeared aft into the control room.

Owen sat down in another of the chairs after accepting the cup Morton held out to him. "Quite a view, Captain Crane."

"More interesting than the Arctic Ocean," Crane agreed. "How's the 1eg?"

Owen dismissed the wound with a shrug. "So, what are you doing in these waters, Captain?"

Crane raised a dark eyebrow at the formality. "I was going to ask you the same."

"Fishing,"

"Fishing?" Crane tried to prevent it from coming out as skeptical as it sounded.

Owen took a sip of the coffee, nodded his approval, then put the cup down. "Fishing. l'm on leave for the last four months ago."

Crane and Morton stared at him in shock.

"Well, excuse me, but that doesn't sound your style, Owen," Crane commented.

Owen gave a fractional shrug. "I ran into trouble in Belfast. The doctors told me that it was no-go for going back on active duty any time soon."

"I'm sorry to hear about it. Where're you based?" Crane asked casually.

"Out of St. George, Grenada," Owen replied. "I've got a flat there, two bedrooms and veranda, small kitchen, good view."

"And you fish?" Morton said in a blank tone that had overtones of disbelief.

Owen lifted an eyebrow. "Once a week. Keeps me busy."

"I mean, to be honest, Reg, I never I just never expected to find you sitting in an apartment in St. George, Grenada!" Chip commented.

"You're off then, Chip," Owen said in a peaceable tone, sipping at the coffee again. "That's exactly what I am doing."

Morton glanced at Lee who was studying their guest intently.

"But you haven't told me what your submarine is doing down here," Owen said, sipping on his coffee.

"Research," Crane said, a touch too fast. "Admiral Nelson is doing some research."

"Is the Admiral aboard, then?' Owen inquired. "I'd like to see him again."

"He's in Washington," Morton replied smoothly. "He was recalled a couple of days ago."

"Ah," Owen said. He fiddled with the coffee cup for a second. "What kind of studies?."

Crane looked over at Morton, who looked taken aback for a second. "Coral reef research. Environmental damage done by oil and gas drilling off the Florida coast," Chip answered glibly. "We did some studies down here four years ago and now we're following up?"

Owen chuckled. "I'll bet that your oil industry isn't too keen on your studies."

"No, and that's the main reason the Admiral's gone back," Crane added. "They're getting on Congress to have them cut our research grant."

"I wish him much luck. Why-- " Owen's question broke off when Carmondy came in to the nose and stood by the table, a sheet of folded paper in his hand.

“Captain Crane?" he demanded.

“Yes?"

"May I speak to you? In your cabin?"

From the color of the sheet of paper in his hands, Carmondy must have spent some time with Sparks, the radio officer. Lee felt a twinge of sympathy for Sparks; it must have been a hellish three-quarters of an hour.

Crane gave in graciously. "Very well. I'll be back, Reg."

Owen raised an eyebrow at Chip after the two men left the cabin. "And who was that?. "

"Richard Carmondy," Morton said with a restrained tone.

"Not a permanent part of _Seaview_ , I hope?"

"I hope not," Chip agreed with a grin. "Want some more?”

Owen turned his head. "Hmm?"

"Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you." Owen held out his cup. "I've learned to like it."

***

Crane sat in his chair and eyed Carmondy as the other stalked around the small cabin, "What is it, Carmondy?"

"That man. Do you trust him?"

"Major Owen? With my life." Which he saved, Lee remembered, on an icy beach in the Falklands.

"I just asked the British Embassy in Barbados about him. They wanted to know why."

"You've triggered their suspicions," Crane commented with a touch of disgust. "I thought you were trying to stay low-profile, Carmondy."

"What do you have planned for him, Captain?"

"I haven't made up my mind," Crane admitted. "Why? Do you have any suggestions?"

"We can't let him go back to St. George, Captain Crane. He can compromise my mission on Grenada. He's seen me here."

Crane gave a bark of laughter which subsided as Carmondy glared at him. "If you hadn't walked in on the conversation, he'd have thought you were part of the crew, Carmondy! Besides, the day Major Owen compromises a military mission is the day the sun sets in the east."

"You trust him that implicitly, Captain?"

"Of course. Maybe it's none of your business what brought Owen here," Crane suggested. "You can grill him tonight at dinner, Carmondy."

Carmondy gave him a dirty look and scooped up his printouts. "That's an hour from now. Who knows what he might pick up between then and now."

"Well, maybe we'll just have to keep him around. The crew likes him, and always have. Now, I'm going back to the control room and my job, and you may do what you please." Crane stood and waved that Carmondy should leave the cabin first.

Scowling, the man obeyed. "I hope you don't regret this, Crane."

"I won't."

***

Admiral Nelson and Linda Gable sat in his suite at the Four Seasons hotel. Room service had brought up their dinners and desserts, and the emptied trays were stacked on one side.

Linda tapped a manicured fingertip on the top sheet of the report she had been studying. "I think your best bet, Admiral, is to use this."

"Use what?"

"The environmental consequences of drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Florida Keys. The lack of a recent disinterested government study will throw a kink in the oil lobbyists' ammunition. They'll have to do their own studies and that will cost them money. In fact..." She scanned the paper for a second.

"In fact?"

"It might be worthwhile, if Congress doesn't give you back the grant, to apply to the lobbyists and use that very argument."

Nelson grimaced. "I'd rather take it from Congress."

"Agreed. But that is one alternative we have to consider in case Congress doesn't come through."

"Any other alternatives, Ms. Gable?" Nelson sat back on the sofa opposite from where she was sitting in an arm chair. The paper-strewn coffee table was between them.

Not for the first time, Nelson thought about the pressures that Congress faced and wished he played the politica1 game better than he did. It seemed so nonsensical having to explain the importance of research to a set of politicians who might not be there two years later and who had probably failed basic science in elementary school.

"Well...there's always the press."

"Oh, please." Nelson held up a hand in protest. "I'd rather not."

"It will cost you nothing but your continued good will in front of Congress. Let's see how that would play. The press points out that your study for the good of the Keys has been taken out of the bill. The congressmen who cut it will look bad...and take it out on you, if they are still in office when your next funding comes up for review,” she concluded ruefully. "Even if they aren't, they probably will have friends who will have long memories. You, as a partly-DOD and private research operation, need friends on Capitol Hill. That's not a good idea," she concluded.

"It seems a risky business for little gain."

She went on, "Then again, you also have other friends in the military who count on you for various operations and would hate to see the Congress take out its disapproval on you over a simple study. Of course, Pete--" she hesitated for a fraction of a second, "--the Senator won't be there, but there are others in Congress and among the Joint Chiefs as we1l, who I'm sure are on your side. You might win the press battle."

"I'd rather not unless it is absolutely necessary," Nelson murmured. He found her insight into lobbyists, the power structure of Washington, and the press, frightening.

"I agree. Let's play it by ear. Your hearing is tomorrow?"

"Yes. The thirteenth at ten am."

She frowned. "Of course, there is the environmental lobby as well. Instead of taking it to the press, take it to the environmentalists. I know Dorrit Beale and John Hill -- they'd both be really interested in this. They'll be outraged at the thought that the lobbyists from the oil and gas group are standing in the way of a follow-up study down there. They can be your voice to the press, they can bring immense pressure against their congressmen--"

Nelson held up his hand again. "At the moment, let's just get to the committee hearing on time. Do you plan to be there?"

"I'm stopping by the hospital, then the office, bur I should make it by ten."

He rose. "I appreciate all the help you have given me, Ms. Gable."

She rose with a rueful smile. "Admiral Nelson, I am happy to help. I seem to remember being rather sharp last year when you asked for our help, and now, well, I'm sorry."

"Not at all," lied Nelson, though she remembered correctly. She had been sharp as a tack, full of confidence at her position with Senator Pete Dawber of the Armed Services Committee, and almost arrogant. In the year just past, a lot of the arrogance had been tamed into competence and a realization that she didn't have to be difficult to get the job done well. "You were very helpful then, and now."

She gathered up her overcoat and the suit jacket that she had removed before dinner. "I'll see you tomorrow at ten, then, Admiral."

"I'm looking forward to it."

****

Jamieson looked at his thin, lantern-jawed face in a mirror and adjusted his collar over his dark tie. It won’t do to look too casual tonight, he thought. Despite the chinos and a torn short Owen still looks like a professional soldier. Amazing what bearing could do for a man. You’d think he was wearing dress uniform… Of course his hair is so long that it’s obvious that he’s not on duty.

There was a tap on the Sick Bay door. "Come in," he cal1ed.

It opened and Owen walked in. “Can I speak to you, Doctor?”

Jamieson turned in surprise. Speak of the devil “Sure, Reg. your leg giving you trouble?”

Owen looked around the sparsely-furnished cabin and sat down in the only chair. "No, it's fine, You asked about my wife."

"Ah, yes?" Jamieson sat down on his bunk. "'Well?"

The silence extended a minute before Owen said reluctantly. "I got married in January."

Jamieson nodded. "So, you mentioned. Congratulations again!"

Owen held up his left hand, the gold band glinting. "Katie was -- is from the Irish Republic, Southern Ireland, and a good Catholic girl. I'd known her for years from other tours. Someone shot us from an alley when I was taking her to the train. The bullets went right through us both."

The doctor flinched.

"My troop finally caught up with us, took us back to Belfast but I was airlifted back to London the next day. She wasn't as badly injured, they thought, so she recovered in hospital in Belfast."

Jamieson's eyes narrowed. "They thought?"

"The bullets hit her in the stomach and they gave her massive blood transfusions so that she'd live," Owen said uncomfortably.

"You must have had transfusions as well, Reg?"

"We have different blood types. I didn't get blood poisoning from it," Owen said looking up at him. "She got hepatitis."

Jamieson took a deep breath. "Hepatitis? Oh, God. What type? A or B? They’ve got a cure--"

"It was B. The infectious one."

"Christ, Reg, I'm sorry!" Jamieson said with growing horror.

"Is there a cure you know of, Jamie?" Owen asked with increasing urgency. "From what I've read, you Americans are on the cutting edge of this disease."

"We are, but the information's so scattered that I'm not sure...no, there's no cure for it that I've heard of," Jamieson said reluctantly. "Not even something to help with symptoms. Is that why you came to Grenada?"

"She'd heard from one of her friends that there were miracle cures down here," Owen said flatly, leaning back in his chair, his gaze going beyond Jamieson to the bulkhead. "It was a lie."

"And now,.."

"She's dying in hospital in St. George," Owen admitted. "It's not a pretty sight. I have to get back to Grenada, Jamie. I was only supposed to be out for a day on this trip to--"

"Give yourself a break," Jamieson supplied. "I'm sure that Captain Crane will be able to help you get back to Grenada. Especially if you tell him about your wife."

Owen shook his head violently. "No, I don't want anyone else to know! Do you think he can drop me in Barbados or another of the islands? I can catch a boat back to St. George and be there tomorrow."

Jamieson hesitated. "I don't know all the details of why we’re here, Owen. I hope that's possible."

Owen's gaze flicked on him. "You mean it's not just research?"

"I can't answer that."

"No, of course not."

"Let's go to dinner, Owen," Jamieson suggested. "We can ask Captain Crane then."

The table in the nose was set for five. The crash doors to the main control room were shut, giving the diners the illusion of privacy.

Crane eyed the seating with a trace of trepidation. Owen was at one end of the table with Morton on one side and Jamieson on the other, while he and Carmondy faced them. It could lead to trouble,

After they were all seated, and served, Carmondy stared inquisitively across the 1inen-draped table at Owen. "So, how is your wife, Major?"

Crane shot a glance at Owen. The man's fingers had tightened on the coffee cup in a grip so hard the thick china was in danger of breaking. His lips had thinned defensively.

"She's fine, Mr. Carmondy."

"She's in a hospital on Grenada?" Carmondy persisted.

"Yes. This is excellent chicken, Captain Crane."

"I'll pass along your compliments to the chief," Crane said wishing he could kick Carmondy in the kneecap without it being obvious. Whatever was going on with Owen's wife, the man obviously didn't want to discuss it. It makes a change from fish."

"So, you were out fishing?" Carmondy asked. "Catch anything?"

"Besides bullets?" Owen answered as lightly as he could. "No, I missed catching a yellow-fin tuna today.”

"Do you fish often?”

"Once a week since I arrived. Mostly on the i  but that won't be happening again," Owen answered crisply.

"Fishing is a relaxing sport," Crane murmured. "I would love to try tuna fishing."

"Come ashore with me in Grenada, and we can rent a boat," Owen offered,

"Not while I'm on duty," Crane said with regret.

"I'm surprised you stay away from your wife, Major," Carmondy insinuated as he cut another piece of chicken.

"Everyone needs a break," Jamieson said unexpectedly, "It's not easy being in a hospital or taking care of someone there. Fishing is probably the best thing you could be doing, Owen."

Chip glanced inquisitively across the table at Crane, then looked at Owen. "I'm sorry to hear your wife is in the hospital, Owen."

"Katie isn't well," Owen explained, his tone bland. "The doctors suggested that I bring her to a warm, sunny climate."

"And Grenada is that," Crane acknowledged

"So, you must know St. George quite well, Major," Carmondy said in false sympathy. "Have you explored the island by now?"

Owen turned to stare him in the eye. "What do you want to know, Mr. Carmondy?"

"I'm thinking of vacationing in Grenada after my job here is done," Carmondy lied fluently. "I was wondering what it was like."

Owen nodded and picked up his coffee cup, sipping at the dark liquid. His eyes watched Carmondy with more than a trace of cynicism.

"So what is it like, Major?" Carmondy persisted unexpectedly.

"What information would you really like?" Owen asked, his tone subtly mocking.

Carmondy stared at him, his body language hostile. "This isn't a joke. I'm very interested in Grenada."

Owen looked over at Crane. "Coral reef research, Lee . " he inquired dryly.

Crane shifted uncomfortably. "We're doing that too, Reg."

Carmondy dismissed the coral reefs story with a wave of his hand. "To be blunt, I'm interested in the politics as much as I am the island. Grenada is run by Prime Minister Maurice Bishop who is a Marxist."

"There's trouble in the Government," Owen agreed. "It's hardly a Marxist paradise, though. The people are more relaxed than that. Even our Govemor-General, Scoon, has been known to unknot his tie and open his collar. It is a British protectorate, remember, even if we've handed it over to the natives to run."

Carmondy persisted. "There is a rumor that Cuba has sent in combat troops to build the new airstrip down at Port Salinas--"

"Oh, good God, are you Americans still going on about that?" Owen said in an irritated tone. "I can tell you that there are Cubans all over the island. It was the Cubans who put Maurice Bishop in office in l979 and he's been on good terms with Castro ever since. His assistant, Coard, is more a straight Communist."

"Apparently, now, Bishop's getting out of line," Crane joined in, feeling that Carmondy had already spilled enough of their mission to come clean with Owen. "We have information that the Cuban airstrip is long enough to take combat aircraft, and give them a range that would include Venezuela as well as the other islands in the Caribbean. We think that someone may want to overthrow Bishop soon."

"Captain!" Carmondy stared across the table at him, aghast. "That's classified information!"

Owen ignored Carmondy's comment. "The Cubans? I heard some rumblings from the markets when I went shopping, but discounted it. Who are they planning to replace him with?"

Carmondy pounced. "Rumblings?"

"There has been an influx this month of new workers for the Port Salinas airstrip, the one you're talking about. Remember we also have Pearls airport up north, though that's the size of a postage stamp. It's not a very big island, gentlemen," Owen said dryly. "Have you bothered calling the medical students at the University Medical School? I'm sure they can fill you in on every thing, including which of their professors are --"

"We don't want everyone to know we're interested," Carmondy cut him off with a glare at Crane.

"But you're going to be landing there yourself, correct?" Owen said with a smile of amusement that lit up his dark face.

"Why do you think that?" Carmondy said blandly and took a bite of the chicken.

"Why else are you interested?" Owen replied amused. "If you want to land unobtrusively, try the southeast edge, down around Hog Island. If you go in early enough, the troops over near Calvigney Barracks won't see you, and it's only a couple of hours walk to the True Blue campus of the St. George's Hospital and get a ride into the city itself. Dress appropriately, and you can look like another harmless tourist."

"Thank you, Reg," Morton murmured.

"Shall I take you in?” Owen asked casually, sipping on his coffee.

Crane eyed Owen in startled surprise, then glanced at Carmondy whose face was full of suspicion. "I'm not sure that we want you involved, Major Owen.”

"Why would you want to help us?" Carmondy asked bluntly.

Owen set his cup on the table with a decided thump "I want to get back to my wife as soon as possible."

That statement silenced the table.

"Now, let me be clear on exactly what is going on," Owen said pleasantly. "The United States is somehow upset with the current government in Grenada--"

"More than just the United States," Crane admitted. "But go on."

"A government that is Marxist. Perhaps you have been already been acting to overthrow it, maybe the Cubans are doing the same to add it more firmly to the Communist sphere. I really don't care." Owen shrugged. "But you are sending a man in there, probably Mr. Carmondy, from his actions -- to find out what is really going on. Now, on my part, I want to get back to St. George as soon as possible. This means either I talk you into letting me take you to the Island, or I ask that you drop me on the nearest local island that could get me back there. Personally, I am not interested in your battles."

"You just want to get back to your wife," Jamieson said sympathetically.

"I have to go back as soon as possible," Owen said flatly, hating to admit his vulnerability. "So, if you want a guide, I'll volunteer."

“And what then, Major?" Carmondy asked suspiciously

“Then? You do what you have to do, and I forget about you. Our ways part."

"Otherwise, we have to try and keep you on _Seaview_ ," Crane observed. "Somehow, I don't think my higher command or yours would like that scenario.”

"It would cause a bit of stink," Owen said with a slight grin. "Maybe even an international military incident with the services. So, what about my offer, Mr. Carmondy? Shall I take you in?" Owen stared at the slender man across the table

"Yes," Crane cut in before Carmondy could comment. "You take Carmondy--"

Carmondy looked up. "Us, Captain Crane."

"Us?" Crane looked blank.

"Us. The powers-that-be wants you to go in with me." From his expression, this stuck in Carmondy's craw. Crane realized the agent had expected to go in alone and cover himself in glory. Seaview was simply his taxi.

"We go in, we discover what the Cubans are doing, we get out with the information. We don't get caught," Carmondy continued with a slash of his hand, "and we get out as fast as we can."

"I don't think you'll even be noticed," Owen commented. "Behave like a gawking American and you'll be ignored except by the street urchins. You have to watch out for them -- they can steal your teeth."

"It sounds like an interesting spot," Chip commented. "I'll start plotting a course for Hog Island. We can be there by tomorrow morning."

"Then you get the other guest room tonight, Reg," Crane said

"Delighted," Owen nodded.


	2. Thursday, October 13, 1983

"Please have a seat, Admiral," Congressman Temple requested from the raised table at the front of the wood-paneled hearing room.

Nelson sat down in front of the microphone, noticing one bored photographer who took a picture of him from the front, then slid off to the right, picked up his case and left the room. No other members of the press had cared to show up for what one wag had dubbed in that morning's Washington Post, the 'Save the Sponges' campaign. Nelson eyed the men, and one woman, in front of him. Of the seven people on the panel only three had shown up, Congressman John Temple of Iowa, Adrian Cronke of Washington State and Barbara Wilkens of Minnesota. Both Cronke and Wilkens looked bored.

He had one ally though. Sitting behind him in the bank of empty chairs was Linda Gable, stylishly attired in a blue linen suit, with a briefcase beside her seat, and a yellow-ruled note pad on her lap. From the expression on Temple's face, he knew her and was slightly wary of her presence.

"Now, this hearing is on the matter of the grant to the Nelson Institute to conduct environmental research in the Caribbean basin and off the Florida coast,” Cronke read from the sheet in his hand. "I understand that it has been cut from the latest version of the Appropriations Bill and you are protesting that cut."

"I am, indeed," Nelson replied. "Without the money to complete the study, the work done five years ago on the environmental impact of further commercial exploration done on the coastline will become useless."

"And, what were the conclusions five years ago?" Wilkens inquired.

Nelson folded his hands. "There weren't any conclusions drawn five years ago, Congresswoman, except to keep a watch out for the environment, since major oi1 and gas interests were interested in further opening more business in the area," Nelson replied bluntly. "Not only the American interests, but foreign interests."

"Such as?" Temple asked.

"The Cubans are interested in the area," Nelson said, hearing Gable behind him stir. "Also, the British have expressed interest in the area even though they have no pressing need for the drilling, considering their strikes in North Sea oil--"

"But they are interested, none the same," Temple interrupted. "I know that major businesses have been interested in setting up drilling along the Florida coast for years now. So, tell me, Admiral, what conclusions do you have now?"

"Congressman, we had only started the preliminary study when we were told that the grant would be cut," Nelson said. "So, I ordered my crew to conduct the studies alongside their regular work down in the Caribbean."

"And what could be happening, Admiral?" Congresswoman Wilkens asked.

Nelson looked impatient for a second, then smoothed out his frown. No need to upset a member of a panel whose support lie needed badly. "Anything, Congressman...woman. The Florida Keys and the Caribbean basin comprise a delicate ecosystem which depends on the ocean currents from as far north as the Chesapeake Bay. An oil spill off the Trinidad coast, waste dumped from cruise ships, pollution off the beaches of New Jersey, all get swept up the Florida coast and can be found as far as the coast of Greenland. The oceans are all interconnected. This study needs to be completed before we lose what use the original data had."

There was a moment of silence, then she nodded agreement. "I understand your viewpoint on this, Admiral, but I still disagree that you need a grant this size to do that work. You have just said that it is being done alongside your own work."

Nelson took a deep breath. "That is for preliminary scanning, not the in-depth collection of data. There is no provision so far for assembling and evaluating the material once it is collected. The grant is barely enough to cover all the details, Congresswoman."

He heard a door open and the hasty footsteps of someone trying to make a quiet entrance into the room. The congressmen stared at the intruder, until finally Nelson turned around .

The messenger handled Linda a message which she opened, paled, then refolded the paper.

Linda gathered her briefcase and purse, and followed the messenger outside without even nodding at the admiral.

Nelson wondered what had caused the precipitous retreat leaving him without a friend in the room. The panel members obviously also wondered from their expressions, but they returned their attention to Nelson after a minute of silence.

"I think we'll have to look at your material--" Wilkens dismissed his comments, but broke off as the door swung open again, and Nelson heard heavier footsteps, then a creak as someone sat down behind him. Out of corner of his eye, he saw a brown shoe. He turned his head slightly and saw a reporter sit down behind him, flip open his notebook, and started scribbling notes.

Nelson felt an obscure sense of relief especially when he looked at the congressmen who were obviously taken aback at the reporter's entrance. They were going to dismiss his report as if it was unimportant, but the presence of the press made that impossible. They might look bad in print.

Wilkens exchanged glances at the other members of the panel, then leaned back in her chair with a smothered sigh. "Please, Admiral, tell us more about the possible problems in the ecosystem  
of the Caribbean area."

****

Whatever Owen's injuries had been, he had rebuilt his body, Crane thought, eying the man who sat in the front of the rubber raft, and wielded his paddle at a rate that made both Crane and Carmondy break out in a sweat. The afternoon sun beat down strongly on them as they paddled their way to the rocky shore.

Above them the seagulls wheeled, cawing hoarsely. The clear blue water showed the jellyfish and other sea life that floated by as they grounded the boat on the beach.

“Put the boat behind these rocks," Owen ordered, taking charge unconsciously. "We'll weigh it down so that the tide doesn't take it out."

Crane flicked him a grin, then began pulling. "You can take the man out of the navy..." he murmured too low for Carmondy to hear.

Owen smiled briefly, then his dour frown returned.

Carmondy scowled, but pulled his share of the raft. He was surprisingly professional now that the mission had started. Crane was surprised by his change of attitude.

"Now what?" Carmondy asked after they had stashed the raft.

"Let's get changed." Crane peeled off his sweat-soaked tee shirt and used it to sponge off the sweat, then reached into the gym bag for a pair of tan pants and a white cotton shirt. He put on the clothes and slicked back his curly hair.

The others followed suit, Owen back in his chinos and a borrowed blue shirt, Carmondy in a yellow-and-white shirt and tight shorts which showed off his muscular tanned legs. He hung a camera over his shoulder along with a small shoulder bag.

"Now we walk," Owen said, looking around. "If we're lucky, we'll get a ride to St. George in one of the minivans." "Have you got a cover story in case they ask us what we're doing out here?" Crane asked Carmondy dryly.

The intelligence man shrugged. "We'll tell them that we heard about the beaches and were investigating to see if they were as good as people claimed."

Owen gave a bark of laughter. "Sony, Carmondy, but you aren't my type. I like women." Carmondy crimsoned. "Travel story. That's the usual excuse around here. Checking out new beaches for the tourist trade. Shell collecting's another good excuse."

Crane nodded and Carmondy, after a moment of irritation, agreed. “That's a good idea. The camera's our cover."

"My cover name's Adam Freeman," Carmondy added. "You're Franklin Pierce--"

“No, I'm Lee Crane," the captain said, irritated. Carmondy frowned. "Carmondy, you neglected to tell me in time to get a cover story set up so I'm using my own name and passport."

"But what if they check, Crane?" Carmondy protested heatedly.

"“ did have time to set up is that I'm on liberty and on vacation down here if someone checks on my story,” Crane filled him in.

"So I can call you Lee and not worry about blowing anything," Owen said with a grin. "Good."

Carmondy sniffed, then shrugged. "I didn't realize there was a problem with managing a handy-dandy quick cover. I could have gotten the NSC to get you -- "

"It's too late now," Crane cut him off with more than a trace of acid. "You're Adam Freeman, then?"

"That's what's on my passport and the credit cards," Carmondy said. "Just please don't blow my cover, Crane."

"We'd better get moving," Owen inserted before Crane could lose his temper at the young man. "Follow me.”

Crabs crawled among the waves washing up on the silver sand and birds circled and dipped.

It was almost paradise as Owen had said. It was only ruined, in Crane's opinion, by having Carmondy with them. He had the sick feeling that he would be bear-leading the cub all the way through this mission.

Their sneakers kept the beach spines and sharp-edged shells away from their feet as they climbed over the sandy, grass-tussock beach to the firmer ground away from the ocean.

Purple-flowered sweet potato vines tangled with dasheen and chistophine squash plants, while overhead bananas and coconut palms waved in the light breezes that swept down the breach.

Bird-of paradise flowers, red-hot poker, numerous varieties of orchids, bougainvillea and hibiscus dominated the landscape along with innumerable thorny bushes.

"What are you going to tell the authorities about your boat, Major?" Carmondy asked abruptly.

Startled, Owen looked at him, then looked back at the beach. "The Lambi? I thought I'd tell them the truth. I have to report it, you know."

"The truth about the hijacking?" Crane said sharply.

"Certainly. Dealli had a family who will want to know."

"And how did you survive?" Carmondy asked sarcastically.

Owen grinned. "They don't have to know how far out to sea we were when it happened. I'll tell them that I just paddled ashore, fighting off the sharks, then spent hours recovering on the beach. I went out on the twelfth, I came back on the thirteenth." A shadow passed over his face at the time spent away from St. George and his wife. "And we'd better start calling ourselves by last names, or first."

"Last names then," Carmondy snapped. "Is this the road you mentioned?"

Bamboo made a wall that they pushed through to reach a pot-holed road. The dirt path stretched in two unmarked lanes over the horizon in front of them. It was bordered with tall nutmeg trees, casting the dirt into shadow.

"That's it. It'll take us to Lower Wolbum and with luck we can get a minivan all the way to St. George." Owen slid down the hillock to the dirt road. "Come on."

He set a blistering pace which, Crane was surprised to see, Carmondy matched stride for stride. The young man was more in shape  
that Lee was -- the captain was panting by the time they heard the roar of an automobile and a small minivan came over the hill, driving down the middle of the road directly at them.

Owen raised his hand and it screeched to a stop ten feet away. Several faces peered inquisitively out of the back. "Going to St. George?" Owen asked

The driver grinned and nodded, waving to the back. "Climb in, plenty of room!"

Crane, Carmondy and Owen crammed themselves among the other riders, Crane landing next to an enormous black woman with a squawking chicken in the wicker basket on her lap.

Crane studied Owen, who was tickling the chicken with a bamboo leaf and laughing with the woman who was chattering to him in heavily accented English. This was a very different Major  
Owen than Crane remembered from the Falklands. A year and a half ago, he would have wagered Owen was a prime candidate for a heart attack brought on by heavy stress and soured attitude towards his job. The commando had hated his job in the Falklands and the war down there hadn't improved his temperament, Crane remembered, from the way he'd acted on _Seaview_. Whether it was his wife or Grenada that had wrought such a change in Major Reginald Owen, the man was now relaxed and happier than he had ever seemed he could be. Made life seem a little bit more worth living.

The woman laughed at Owen who finally withdrew the frond from the basket as the small minivan drove into Sugar Mill, a small town dominated by one great factory building and thousands of small shanties which lined the roads that led into the main square. Crane remembered from a map that the town was in the middle of the island

Most of the riders disembarked

The woman tugged on Owen's arm and pointed towards a lime-green minivan across the way

"She says her brother s going to St. George and we can ride with them," Owen called to the others as he followed her. Carmondy trailed along, his face sour with envy

Crane felt a trace of unease about the agent, but brought up the rear. He wasn't sure who was in more danger -- Owen or the Grenadians. The young man had planned to be a hero here, and Owen was doing all the work without showing a trace of pressure.

Four hours later, the van entered St. George. It drove down Wharf Road past the tennis courts, and the Technical Institute, to the marketplace set right along the bay.

The van drew up to the market, and Owen dismounted, stretching his hands out for the chicken, as the woman clambered down. Carmondy dropped some money on the seat, and the driver, with a raised eyebrow but a broad smile, scooped it up with a grin and stuffed it in his pocket

Owen frowned but shrugged at the woman who said something in French to him, glared at Carmondy, then took her chicken from Owen and went into the crowds.

"Where are we?" Crane asked looking around at the kaleidoscope of pink, blue and green-topped white houses with an occasional red roof to add contrast. They were built along the steep hills that surrounded Half Moon Harbor. Along the street were tour ships, tied up to the docks, and small fishing vessels sailed out of the mouth of the bay for the rougher waters of the Caribbean. Palm trees, riots of bougainvillea, orchids and waving hibiscus lined the narrow streets.

Around them swirled crowds of black faces mixed with the pallor of visiting tourists off the cruise ships, and the crisp white dress uniforms of the police. School children wearing uniforms danced among the crowds chattering loudly. The smell of the city mixed with the cool afternoon breezes and the cloud of nutmeg and cinnamon scents coming from warehouses near their destination

"This is the heart of St. George," Owen replied. "That way," he gestured down across the bay, gay with small fishing boats, "is the Ramada Renaissance hotel for the tourists. Up from it, you find Fort Rupert and the Governor-General’s villa, that one on top. To the east,” he waved behind him, "are Fort Frederick and the Richmond Hill prison. I'm staying at a small hotel nearby called St. Ann's Guise House."

“And your wife is at the hospital on the Grand Anse campus?” Crane asked idly.

Owen tensed. “She’s in the hospital near Fort Frederick,” he said reluctantly. “About a half-hour from here.”

"Then our paths diverge here," Carmondy said, holding out his hand "Good luck, Ma-- ah, Owen."

“Good luck, mates. Keep in touch -- what the devil?" Owen breathed, looking over their shoulders down the road.

The others turned.

The road was filled with army troops moving at a dogged half-run up the steep roads towards the southern part of the city. People moved out of their way with alacrity, their faces full of alarm.

"That's the first place we'll go," Carmondy said, with a touch of anticipation, starting after the troops.

"Better catch him before he gets into trouble, Lee," Owen said in an undertone to Crane. “I think the Grenadians might get a bit upset if they check his passport and don't find an entry stamp."

"Damn the man," Crane muttered. "I’ll see you around, Owen. Good luck with your wife."

Owen nodded as Crane moved casually out into the crowd, the officer's long legs bringing him alongside Carmondy in a few minutes.

The crowd flowed between them, sounding louder than Owen had ever heard before, the sound of an angry mob in the making. He glanced around, then set off for the Harbor Master office.

He walked through the narrow congested streets of the city, the local people ignoring him except for some soldiers who were gripping their rifles tightly, and watching uneasily. With casual self-assurance, he stepped inside the red-tiled building that served as the main police headquarters and walked up to the front desk.

The small man seated there smiled broadly, his white teeth a contrast with his dark skin. “Ah, Major Owen. Come to renew your visa?"

Owen grinned back at hi. "It's good for another month as you know, Anslem No, I want to report piracy."

“We cleaned out the pirates centuries ago, Major, sir!" Anslem retorted with a touch of laughter.

"Not according to the tourists," Owen shot back. "I'm serious. I hired the Lambi yesterday to take me out fishing and we were hijacked. They shot Dealli, the crew and took the boat."

Anslem's grave expression reflected the seriousness of the charge. "Do you have any idea of who did it?"

"They spoke Spanish," Owen stated flatly. "Probably just pirates, but they were very well armed for pirates. Maybe Cuban?"

Anslem looked both ways nervously. "I think you had better come inside my office to fill out the proper forms.”

Owen followed the uneasy man into one of the small rooms bordering the main hall. The overhead fan lackadaisically stirred the hot air as Anslem closed the windows and flicked closed the blinds. The late sun came in through the slats and the room heated up immediately.

"What's going on, Anslem?" Owen demanded.

The official looked around nervously, his hands suggesting that Owen keep his voice down.

"Are you sure it was the Cubans, Major Owen ."

"Not positive, no."

"Then keep that to yourself," Anslem advised. "The Cubans are currently very involved with the current government.t'

"I can tell. They've taken over the Holiday Inn down by the water. That's where all the workers are staying." Belatedly, Owen thought he'd forgotten to mention that to Crane and

Carmondy.

"No, no, very close at the moment," Anslem urged. "It would look very bad if they were

accused of piracy."

Owen's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying, Anslem?"

"Don't get involved, Major, just go back to your^ apartment or go see your wife, and stay out

of trouble," Anslem said nervously.

Outside they heard the sound of a crowd yelling and taunting, then, the sound of military feet in marching stride, and a gun shot shattered the city's peace. The crowd sounds fell for a second, then redoubled.

"What is going on?" Owen murmured following Anslem out of the room as the man ran for the front doors.

They reached the stairs as the military troops went by towards Richmond Hill Prison, a tall black man in a business suit along with several other civilians, in their midst. Another set of troops followed behind with a cursing mob of townspeople on their heels.

"My God. The army's just arrested Prime Minister Bishop," Owen said in Anslem's ear. "The military's in charge now?."

The man nodded miserably. "Coard is the new Prime Minister as of this time."

And Coard is working with the Soviets, and probably the Cubans, Owen thought. My word, Carmondy, you were right. It could be a messy situation.

A trooper came over towards them, his face full of anger. "What are you doing here, sir?" he asked Owen, his dark hands clenching the rifle tightly.

"Reporting a crime. My boat was stolen," Owen said in a pacific tone. "But, I'm all done now.

Anslem..."

"Yes, yes, I'll take care of all the paperwork," Anslem bubbled hastily.

"I suggest you return to your hotel," the trooper said to Owen in a stern tone. "Martial law

has been declared in St. George for the next twelve hours, until tomorrow morning."

"Ah, then I will go," Owen said, staring him fearlessly in the eyes for a second, until the man's eyes fell, then turning away. 'I'll seeing you, Anslem."

"Soon, Major Owen."

Owen strolled off into the dwindling crowds feeling the trooper's gaze on his back. He hoped he wouldn't get shot.

Around him the yells of the crowds were coalescing into ominous chants and shopkeepers looked out their doors, eyeing the people, then shutting up the blinds and locking their doors. The cafes were closing around him as he walked up towards the hospital.

 

***

The afternoon was stretching into evening as Carmondy strolled down the length of the road that lead to the Grand Anse campus of the medical school. The red-tiled, one-storied buildings were set among immaculate lawns and waving palms. A few students, young men and women in their mid-twenties, walked the gravel paths, but the biggest congregation of people were down on the beach under brightly striped beach umbrellas. The sails of three red-orange-green sailboards danced over the blue ocean on the horizon.

He looked around noticing that he had finally lost Captain Crane. They had been together until the soldiers had turned to disperse the mobs, and the people had flooded back on them, sweeping Carmondy on the road out of town. He remembered it led to the University hospital and decided to visit there first.

The beach looked very welcome to his overheated body as a place to sit and coo1 off under the palm tree and maybe meet people who cou1d help him. He paused momentarily to slide off his shoes and socks, then walked down the beach, silver sand gritty beneath his feet.

Under one umbrella sat three women, ages ranging from their early twenties to probably near Carmondy's thirty. A rangy brunette, striking in her striped, well-fined, and minuscule bikini,  
shaded her eyes as he came over the hill and looked him over from his hair to his feet. She smiled.

"We have a new friend, Alice," she said to a blonde woman beside her who was smearing coconut oil on a well-tanned body. "Not bad-looking for a stranger."

Alice looked at him. "Seems a little underdone, Felicia," she remarked with a sugary soft accent. " What do you think, Toni?"

The last woman looked up from heir book. "Why don't we talk him into staying a while, Alice?" Toni said with a slight Spanish accent. "Then we can check him out."

"Who gets first dibs?" Alice asked mischievously.

"Whoever gets there first," Felicia said with a laugh. She sat upright and waved, the movement drawing attention to her bosom. "Are you lost?" she called.

Carmondy saw this as an invitation to come over. "I was looking for the administration building," he remarked lightly. His expression was approving as he looked from Felicia to Alice whose thong bikini was just legal, and Toni's elegant one-piece that was mostly mesh.

"Take off your shirt and I'll give you some oil," Alice suggested holding out the bottle. "No one's there right now. They've all gone into town for dinner."

"Except you ladies," he retuned casual1y. "Are you waiting for- your dates tonight?"

"I've got a test tomorrow, so I'm staying in tonight," Felicia said with a laugh, settling back in her chair.

"Unless you have some plans we don't know about," Toni questioned eyeing him.

He glanced at her, his gaze sharpening. "Are you ladies Americans?"

"Of course," she answered. "I'm from Miami. Antonia Walter."

"I'm from Georgia," Alice said, leaning forward and smiling at him "My name is Alice Pasdoral. This is Felicia Williams--"

"From Westchester, New York. What's your name?"

"Adam," he said with a smile. 'from New England."

"Ah," Felicia smiled back and patted the sand beside her. "Have a seat, Adam You can share my shade."

He folded himself down beside her. "So, you are all students here? How do you like it?"

"Like it?" Alice asked airily. "It's a fine school."

"It really is," Toni agreed. "I'm in my third year here."

"You plan to be a doctor?"

"An obstetrician," she supplied. "What are you doing here, Adam?"

"I'm looking into applying," he said smoothly. "I was in town on vacation so l thought I'd come over and look at the campus."

"You should go down to True Blue and see what's there," Alice suggested.

"True Blue?"

"The auxiliary campus where lots of the students are," Felicia added. "There used to be an indigo plantation down there so they called it True Blue."

 

"Now, there are so many Cubans around down there, that Spanish may become the native language," Alice said with a slight shudder. "I don't speak that."

Toni eyed her then shrugged. "I'm from Miami so I can understand why they like it here. It's nicer than Cuba."

"Cubans! Why are they here? Who are they?"

Felicia yawned. "Just workers. They're working on that airstrip. You know, the one that'll bring in thousands of tourists to ruin Grenada."

“ "It might help the people, though,” Toni suggested gently, "The standard of living here isn't very high, Felli. They need the money."

"It's just right the way it is," Alice declared, putting her lotion in her basket. The sun dipped beneath the horizon and the sky was deepened into red streaks. Seagulls cawed and dipped in the water. The sailboarders had vanished. "But I do have that blood test tomorrow, so I'd better get to work."

"Givernie's? Good luck," Felicia said lazily. "Characteristics of blood diseases is such a fascinating topic."

"I wish we could do something about them," Toni said in a worried tone. "I mean, hepatitis is fatal most of the time, Felicia. Liver disease is a horrible way to die. l mean, watching them with Katie Owen is really--"

"Katie Owen?" Carmondy asked idly, his gaze out on the waves and his expression disinterested. "Who's she?"

'”One of the patients up at Crazy House, the mental hospital," Felicia commented. "She's an Irish woman who thought there was a cure here, but instead she's dying instead. She's a nice woman -- it's a pity."

"But, her husband's still alive and all man," Alice commented with an unconscious lick of her lips. "Yum. He'd be an interesting man to get to know!"

"You are a ghoul, Alice," Toni joked half-seriously. "Let the poor woman die in peace. Her mind's mostly gone now anyway."

She caught the expression on Carmondy's face misunderstood. "She contracted hepatitis from a blood transfusion. It's a real tragedy for both of them. They hadn't been married long." She folded up her towel and stood up. "I've had enough sun today."

Carmondy also rose. "Can you point out the administration building, Ms. Walter?"

She smiled, dimples showing in the coffee tan. "I’d should be happy to, Adam."

"And then, maybe, dinner?" he questioned picking up her small basket.

She shot a glance at the others, who stared wide-eyed. "I think I could manage that. Come along."

Carmondy smiled as he followed her along the walk. "You said you come from Miami? Do you know any of the Cubans here on the island?"

"Oh, no. My father was from Cuba. I'm an all-American girl."

“Ah."

 

***

 

In the cool evening air, Crane walked up the narrow streets away from the marketplace, his muscles protesting the unexpected exercise. While he prided himself on keeping in shape, mountain climbing was impossible on _Seaview_. t would take a while to get used to walking about the volcanic island.

Many of the stores were barred and shut, and only two cafes were still open, the owners standing warily in the doorways, watching the crowds. Crane kept himself against the walls, out of the way of sweeping mobs and the following police or soldiers. So far nobody had bothered him, but that wouldn't last long, he guessed. He had lost Carmondy in the masses of people, and finally decided to get acquainted With the town rather than search for one face in the crowd.

He had spent the afternoon at the marketplace where tourists were clustered thickly, fresh off the cruise liners that were anchored nearby, Wooden stalls lined the street offering home-grown fruit including watermelon-sized papayas, ripe bananas and lemon-limes, bolts of fabric and tee shirts, sometimes a bag of sugar. The merchants were selling whatever they could finagle someone into buying. This included individual Band-Aids in some cases, or an aspirin wrapped in plastic bubble wrap. One wooden table had perfume bottles of shampoo intermixed with bags of rice and bananas. He bought several tee shirts to wear in the next few days, to validate his cover as a tourist, then walked up the road to the hotel he and Carmondy had selected.

The farther he got from the tourist zones the more suspicious looks he got from the soldiers and Crane was vastly relieved when he finally reached the hotel and stepped inside, out of their sight. From the feel and sound of the crowd, if martial law hadn't already been invoked, it would be.

The clerk's plastic label read Mantou. "Can I help you?

"I'd like a room."

“Do you have a reservation?. " the clerk inquired.

“I m afraid not," Crane replied. "I just got into town."

“Ah. Well, we have some rooms left facing the harbor. If you will just sign here." He held out the pen and a form for Crane to fill out.

“I have a friend who will be joining me," Crane said, writing "Lee Crane" in the proper spot. “We'll need two beds."

“Not...ah, two doubles, sir?" the man asked delicately

“In adjoining rooms, please. A suite, perhaps?"

“Of course, sir. Your credit card?. "

Crane handed it over without batting an eye. Luckily it didn't have anything that would tip them off that he was a naval officer, if they even cared. After all, there was nothing illegal in a sailor on leave going to Grenada... He waited for the man to laboriously copy out the information. Of course, he would have been stuck if he had been asked for his passport.

Finally the clerk handed back the plastic card and turning around, pulled out a brass room key. "Room five-oh-one, sir, is a two-bedroom suite. Enjoy your stay."

“Thank you. My friend's name is Adam Freeman. He'll be here soon,"

“I will direct him to your rooms, Mr. Crane. Enjoy your stay in Grenada."

***

Nelson returned to his hotel around six pm to find a note from Linda Gable that Pete Dawber was hoping to see him that evening. He hung his raincoat in the closet and dumped the notebooks of documentation in a chair, then took out one of the small liquor bottles from the bar.

He wasn't sure that he wanted to see Pete Dawber in the Senator's present condition. The loaming imminence of death depressed Nelson. He had seen it too often.

He swallowed the whiskey and water, then put the glass down beside the window and stared out at the city. It had been raining that day, and the city was reflected in numerous puddles like a smeared watercolor. Damn, this is a shame. Dawber's too tough to just give up on his life, and he's gonna die slowly. There should be a better way for us all. With a shrug of resignation, he pulled on the damp raincoat and left.

After a twenty minute drive, he stepped from the cab and paid the driver. The hospital was lit with night lights, but the halls were hushed as he walked down them towards Pete's room.

The door was half-open but the lights were dimly lit. Nelson looked both ways, didn't see any nurses or doctors, then went in. The sign on the wall said visiting hours were between six and eight.

Pete was breathing harshly through a nose tube, an intravenous drip inserted in a vein in his left arm. His eyes flickered open as Nelson came in, and he smiled. "Harry..."

"Hello, Pete. How are you doing?" Nelson asked seriously.

Dawber grimaced weakly. "I'm dying, Harry. Just a few more days to go.”

"I’m sure that's not true."

"Sit down, sit down, don't tower over me," Dawber said irritated. He waved a finger towards a chair against the wall.

Nelson sat down awkwardly.

“I saw... Emily today," Dawber said conversationally. "My daughter."

“I know. I mean, I knew she was coming in today. I'm glad she came," Nelson replied.

"Told her she should go back and prepare to defend the homestead. She cried. Buckets," Dawber said with ghoulish glee. He caught Nelson's reproving look. "I need some amusement, Harry. There's not much longer to go."

"I hope you're wrong."

"I don't. Don't want to be attached to a tube for the next few years," Dawber said explosively, then slumped back against the sheets gasping for breath. "Rather have a heart attack, you know. But never mind. How are you, Harry?"

Nelson stared at his friend as he sorted out what to say. Finally he said the truth. "It's a mess, Pete.”

"Linda.... tells me you have a giant problem."

"That's right. Congress cut our funding for a major project."

Dawber made a face. "Wouldn't have if I was there, Harry. Whipped them into shape. So...what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Your aide, Linda--"

"Smart girl, Linda. Can help a lot."

"Gave me some ideas," Nelson said. "I haven't decided what to do yet.”

Dawber wheezed at him for a second, then smiled. "You'll get the money somehow, Harry. Keep looking. Congress is always looking to do favors."

"l will," Nelson agreed.

"Now, about Linda," Dawber said. "I hope someone picks her up when I'm gone. She's very good...I trained her."

"I'm sure some other congressman will take her on," Nelson commented. "She's as sharp as any scientist l know."

"Congressman! Oh, doubt that. She says a couple of lobbyists are already angling for her duties."

"What?" Nelson realized he was becoming a broken record. He hadn't said "what" so often since the Korean war

"They know a go-getter," Dawber said. "If she applies to you, Harry, turn her down. She'll do better with a couple of the PR firms in time."

"Right. I'll turn her down. Pete, are you sure you want me to stay?" Nelson asked, looking at the man's ashen face. The conversation was taking its toll.

"Stay..." Dawber's attention was caught by the moon lifting above the trees outside his window "Isn't that beautiful?"

"Pete?" Nelson stood. The dying man was staring out the window. "Pete?"

“He drifts off like this quite often," Linda said from the doorway. "He probably won't be coming back down tonight, Admiral."

“I got your message," Nelson said awkwardly. He wondered how much she might have heard.”

“ So l see. You're a little later than I suspected you would be," she said softly.

“Where's his daughter?"

"In the waiting room." Her gaze met his. "They don't think he'll last the night, Admiral."

Then I'll wait with her," Nelson said soberly. "For a while."

“I’ll show you the way," Linda replied.


	3. Friday, October 14, 1983

Crane groaned and turned over under the thin linen sheet. The hotel windows were open to the cool ocean breezes that came in with the morning tide. The sky was cloudy with a promise of rain. It had been a warm night. His sleep had been disturbed when Carmondy brought some girl home with him and they'd caroused, noisily, for several hours. Crane didn't envy him the woman; he envied him the probability that Carmondy would be as fresh as a daisy even with only three or four hours of sleep. 

He heard a muffled grunt from the other- room, then shuffling as if Carmondy was finally rolling out of bed. Crane staggered out of his cocoon of cloth and headed for the bathroom. 

The shower abruptly ended after two minutes, and Crane cursed, turning the handles. No water. Finally, he dried himself and went into the main room. He pulled on jeans and a loose shirt, suitable for hiking over the island, as he planned. He added a dark jacket just in case it rained. 

"Shower work?" Carmondy called. 

"I think the water's off," Crane replied "You can try it." 

"I will." 

After a few seconds, Crane heard cursing. The hot water was apparently still off. 

Carmondy sauntered back in, a towel around his middle, and red in his blood-shot eyes "I'll head down to the beach instead, take a salt-water bath." 

"Got any plans for today?" 

"More of yesterday, Crane. Get stuff to send back to Washington." 

"Right. That was some girl who spent the night, Carmondy," Crane said dryly "I thought bongo drums were going off." 

"She's one of the medical students at the college. I went out to Great Anse and asked a bunch of questions," Carmondy said airily. "We got caught in the curfew so she couldn't get home. A really fine girl. She left a couple of hours ago." 

"Find out anything important?" 

"She came prepared." Carmondy smirked. "Information? Not as much as I liked about the mission. But, I did find one interesting thing," Carmondy added with a slight air of superiority. 

"What?" 

"That hospital? The one that Owen's wife's in?" 

"Yes " Crane stared at him. 

"It's the local loony bin." Crane's blank stare annoyed the young man. "It's a mental hospital, Crane. She's crazy." He turned away and went into the next room to get his clothing. 

"God." Crane looked down at the shoes in his hands, then put them on the bedspread and walked over to the window that overlooked the city. The crimson hibiscus in the window box waved gaily in the wind. "God. Poor Owen. No wonder you didn't want to talk about your wife." 

Below him, he saw Carmondy go out of the hotel and hail a taxi. For a second, Crane had an urge to lob one of the hibiscus pots at him, but the man got in a small car, driven by a bottle-blond haired girl who was laughing, and drove off before Crane could act on the impulse. 

He turned back to the bed and put on his new hiking boots, then picked up his black jacket. 

He paused for a second before sliding it on. “I wonder when Carmondy found time to ask about Owen's wife?" he mused. 

***

 

Admiral Nelson had just finished tying his tie when someone knocked on the door. At the second knock, Nelson swung around. "Yes?" 

"Admiral Nelson?" 

He crossed the room and checked out the spy hole, then opened the door. 

Both men wore naval uniforms with the stripes of Lieutenant Commanders on their sleeves. 

"Admiral Nelson?. " one asked again, politely. 

“Yes?" 

"I've been asked to bring you to the White House, sir." 

Nelson's eyebrows soared. "The White House?" 

"Yes, sir. Immediately." 

"Let me get my coat.” He closed the door and picked up his uniform jacket and brushed a hand over his red hair making sure it was in place. 

He opened the door and walked out. "Let's go, gentlemen." 

The trip took fifteen silent minutes through heavy traffic. Nelson didn't bother to ask questions of the men; as White House staff they knew co keep the” conversations private even if there were in a limousine. 

Going into the White House by the West Wing, they walked down to the corner office that 

faced Pennsylvania Avenue. Nelson knew the door well; it led to the office of the National Security Advisor, Charles Bennett. 

"Hello, Harry!" The man sitting behind the paper-strewn, ornate carved-oak desk was a civilian, dressed in a slightly-creased white shin and cockeyed dark tie that had loosened from its knot. His blue suit jacket hung on the coat rack beside the door. 

"Charlie!" Nelson said with a spontaneous grin. "How are you doing?" 

“Keeping a lid on things as usual," Bennett retorted. "Nice to see you again, Harry." 

"What's so important that you had to drag me out of my hotel room?" Nelson asked, sitting down in the leather chair across the desk from Bennett. 

The NSC man rustled out a cable from beneath a stack of paper. "This." 

Nelson looked at the typed words then began to read. "'The Prime Minister of Grenada has been overthrown. He is a prisoner in Richmond Hill Prison along with most of the cabinet. Please advise on action to take.' This is signed by the American Ambassador in Barbados." 

"We don't have an embassy on Grenada or anything official there except over five hundred medical students studying at the University," said Bennett. 

"Who are now in danger?" 

"Who are now in danger," Bennett agreed. "Maybe. The new PM is aligned with the Russians. Supposedly, there's a great deal of turmoil on the island." 

Nelson gave a bark of laughter. "I'm sure there is!" 

"The only ClA man in Grenada happened to be off the island," Bennett informed him. "So, when I heard from the British that there seemed to be some problems brewing there, I sent a man named Carmondy in to check the situation." 

"And, I ordered Seaview to take him in." 

Nelson stared at Bennett in disbelief. "Seaview? " 

"Carmondy was in Trinidad so I ordered to pick him up there and take him, unobtrusively, to Grenada." Bennett leaned back in his chair and waited for the explosion he could see building in Nelson to erupt. 

"You ordered my submarine to Trinidad to pick up--" 

"Not done on a whim." Bennett said flatly. "However, events in Grenada went so fast that I added another order which you are going to dislike even more." 

"What?" Nelson asked, his shoulders bunched angrily under his jacket. 

"Your captain, Crane, I believe, was -- is a member of the Office of Naval Intelligence. I had him go in with Carmondy to Grenada. Covering all the bases." 

"You...you reassigned my captain without asking--" 

"On a direct order from the President, I didn't like it but I did it," Bennett confessed. "They're in now, and we've had one call from Carmondy saying they arrived, and that Gable from the Ambassador in Barbados, Things are turning into a real mess." 

"To be expected," Nelson snapped back. "Coups usually are.” 

"Well, since you're here in town and you have personnel involved, I thought you'd be a good person to include in the Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting tomorrow on the topic. Nine am. At the Pentagon." 

Nelson stared at him in sheer disbelief. "What are you planning, Charlie?" 

Bennett didn't meet his eyes. "The president doesn't want more of a Communist presence in the Caribbean." 

"Invasion? You're planning to send troops--" 

"The option is open," Bennett said neutrally. 

Nelson shook his head in disbelief. "That's crazy! And, Charlie, I have a Congressional committee hearing tomorrow at ten!" 

"Oh, that. Don't worry, I've already consulted with the members of the committee and they are putting it off for several days." Bennett smiled at Nelson's stunned expression. "They said they could use the time elsewhere." 

"But my research grant!" the Admiral sputtered. 

“Don't worry, Harry, we'll see that you get the money for your research one way or another," Bennett concluded in a tone of finality. "Tomorrow at nine am?." 

Nelson shook his head in disbelief. "Exactly what are you planning, Bennett?" 

"Tomorrow. Nine. Be there and find out," the man suggested. 

There was a gentle tap on the door, then it opened. "Mr. Bennett, the President wants to see you." 

"Coming, Jane. Harry..." 

Nelson stood and shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. "You're at it again, aren't you?" 

"Grenada wasn't any of our doing, either NSC or CIA," Bennett answered in deadly seriousness. "But we have to react to it, Harry. There are between a thousand and two thousand Cubans on that island, they might take it over. Where would we be then?" 

"Still out of Grenada," Nelson said dryly. "I'll see you tomorrow at nine." 

Stepping outside, the admiral realized that he had just enough time to catch a taxi to get to the subcommittee hearing where, even if he wasn't the supplicant, he wanted to see what else they were cutting. He walked out of the White House and hailed a cab. 

 

***

 

Carmondy was amazed at the amount of liquor Alice was drinking over lunch. She had met up with him and Toni the night before and blatantly invited him to visit the campus the next day when she was free of classes. It would have been hard to refuse. 

He hadn't wanted to, either. The trio of women were some of the best informants he'd ever worked with especially when Alice was partly drunk. That they were beautiful was an added point in their favor, he admitted. 

"So you know the man who is leading the Cuban workers?" he asked across the table 

"Toni knows him," Alice said with a shrug. "At least, they've talked a lot. She's always going down to True Blue to visit with them." 

"How many do you think there are?" 

"Oh, scads. They come in to the hospital all the time trying to get free medical stuff all the time." She leaned forward suddenly, her polished nails scoring his skin. "Have you seen the waterfalls yet, Adam?." 

"Waterfalls?" he feigned interest 

"Yes, up in the mountains. Come up with me." 

"Now?" 

"Now. I'll take you up to the highest point. You can see the whole island from there.”

He dropped a bill on the table top. "Lead on, sweetheart." 

***

Crane followed the road that led through the valley between Fort Frederick and the prison, ending up among the mountains that ran down the center of the volcanic island. He wandered around, talking with the cinnamon growers and the field workers, who were gathering nutmeg from the tall trees, and scraping bark, and stepped into the groves to avoid soldiers that appeared regularly in trios along the path. 

Around him the lush, verdant land rolled in steep volcanic waves towards the cobalt sea. 

Flowers and vines covered the rich soil while just over the tips of the mountains, he could see the squat forms of cactus and yellowed sands of a desert to the north. The island was a microcosm of different landscapes. 

He walked under the low tangled vines that hung above the path into the Grand Etang National Park, set among the two-thousand-foot-high mountains. The path was blocked by the huge red leaves of African tulip trees, massive stands of orchid and helliconia reaching, out to score his arms, and made him glad for the jacket which kept his skin safe, even if he was overheating.

Lemons and limes swayed from small trees as he passed. It was It was machete territory, the growth was as thick as a jungle. The roads wandered wherever it was easiest to walk. He had to be careful not to get off the main path. 

Overhead, he heard the scream of a monkey mixed with the song of mockingbirds, but he couldn't see them through the lush leaves. As he looked around, a boa constrictor slid from a branch into the undergrowth, and Crane slowed his pace to make sure it wasn't coming his way. 

Other than that, it was silent and green with the ominous closed feeling of a rain forest except where he could see the sky 

An hour later he reached the lake and looked at the crystal blue water that filled the crater. He knelt down and scooped up some of the water rubbing it over his face, and down his neck. It felt like heaven. Turning around he saw that his report was going to be considerably shorter than Carmondy s. The only tracks leading to the crater were his. He'd met no one on his trek. Still, he could report that the jungles would be difficult to penetrate if someone decided to try to, and theland could be lived off of. _Pretty slim pickings. I'd better get back to town and see if I can liven up the report._

Looking around, he wished Seaview’s entire crew could have a vacation on Grenada. It would do them a world of good. 

Someone screamed. 

Crane turned and ran back up the road where he had descended. That sounded like a woman and she was in trouble. 

They met with a collision, her running towards the lake, and hitting him unexpectedly. 

"Oof!" she said clinging to him for a second, then stepping back, brushing back her dark hair. "I m so sorry!" 

"That's all right, miss. Did you scream?" 

"Yes, that was me," she admitted. "l just saw the biggest snake in creation and couldn't help myself." 

He smiled, remembering his first reaction. "They are huge up here." 

"It was just a boa, but it took me by surprise!" she exclaimed, then smiled ruefully. "I've seen them before." She looked to be in her middle twenties from the shape in the trim, if plant-stained, jeans and muddy shirt. "Hi, my name's Ann Westmark." She held out her hand. 

He shook it. "Lee Crane. I'm a tourist." 

"Really? I'm one of the scientists down in True Blue." 

"Really?" he echoed her. "What are you a doctor of, Miss -- Ms. Westmark?" 

"I'm a botanist," she admitted. "Orchids. This is my sabbatical from UCLA." 

"Well, you’ve got the right island," he commented. "I've never seen so many orchids." 

"If we can keep all the people from picking them, it'll be fine," she said astringently know, there are all these strangers here, and they're ruining the island!" 

"Strangers? Tourists?" 

"No, just work men for that airstrip." She shrugged. "Well, I have to go back and pickup my pack, so..." 

"I'm heading down the mountain myself," Crane said pleasantly. "May I join you?" 

She looked hesitant, then must have realized that she couldn't stop him if he wanted to come. "Sure. I left it where I saw the snake." 

They strolled back down the path. 

 

Four hours later, Crane stood on the path that branched either up to Fort Frederick or down to the city, and knew he was headed to the place he had been thinking of for most of the day. Up past Fort Frederick to the hospital where Owen's wife was staying. 

He admitted to himself that it was a stupid thing for him to do. Owen would have every right to smash him into a pulp for interfering with his private life, and Crane wouldn't appreciate it if the positions were reversed. But, he was drawn like a magnet up the hill to the two-story concrete and wood-blinded villa set behind a stone wall, where nurses in crisp white uniforms that contrasted with their faces stood beside the patients. 

Huge baskets of bougainvillea swung from the hospital's roof as Crane drifted quietly up to the stairs. He looked around and didn't see Owen anywhere, then checked his watch. It said one pm. Lunchtime. 

"Thank you, Matron," came a well-known voice from the lobby of the whitewashed building, and Crane dodged behind a patient, sitting down beside her and hiding his face. 

Owen came out, his expression lost and grim, but his bearing straight as a lance. The nurse who followed him to the top of the stairs, looked as if she wanted to cry as he walked down the gravel path to the main gates. 

Crane felt someone paw his hair, and looked up to see the patient eyeing him inquisitively. 

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then bashfully cringed away, hiding her face in her robe. 

He rose and went inside the hospital. 

His first impression of the building was that it was sunny and smelled 1ike an orange grove. 

Tall windows were open to the tropical breezes that came over the mountains and flirted with the fine lace curtains that flanked the glass. The whitewashed walls matched the spotless white linoleum underfoot. The foyer was empty, the sound of voices coming from the hallways co either side. 

Crane moved swiftly to the main desk and checked the ledger. “Owen...room two-four-five." 

He climbed the brick stairs two at a time, startling one nurse who was carrying a load of blankets. 

He smiled and nodded and proceeded on as if he knew where he was going. 

Pausing on the landing, he finally turned right and found himself going down the wrong hallway. The numbers were in the teens. 

Turning back, he saw the same nurse who had been watching Owen come out of a room, carrying a tray in her hands.

Crane slicked back his hair, and fastened the top of his shirt, then slid on the dark jacket and zipped it up. Walking slowly till the nurse passed him going to the stairs, he boldly opened the door to room two-forty-five and went inside. He stopped in total shock. 

The woman lying on the bed was as slender as a wraith except for her stomach, which was a distended mound beneath the white sheet. Her black hair drifted over her skeleton thin shoulders, half-uncovered by the thin nightgown. 

Is she pregnant? Crane's thought was half-formed before she turned her head and looked at him Her skin was yellow from jaundice and her dark eyes were hollow pits in her thin face If she was pregnant she would die before giving birth, he thought irrationally. 

"Reggie?" she asked, her voice was as light as the cry of a sparrow. "Is that you?" 

"No." Crane suddenly asked himself why he was there. This was the rankest piece of business he had ever done pandering to his own curiosity. "I'm a friend of his." 

"A friend." She turned her head and her eyes focusing as she stared at him. "Are you a priest, then, Father?" 

"A...priest?" Crane looked down at his attire and saw how she could have made the mistake. “No. 

"Reggie said lie would get me...a priest. I have to make confession today. It's Sunday, you know," she said softly, her gaze drifting out the window. 

It was Friday, as Crane well knew. He began to suspect that Carmondy could be right. Katie Owen was ill or...crazy.

"I'm a friend of Owen's," Crane repeated. "He asked me to drop in." 

She smiled at him suddenly, a blinding smile that made Crane begin to understand how this wraith could have melted the heart of a hardline British officer and made him fall in love. "I'm being a poor hostess. Please sit down. There on the chair. The nurse'll be back in a second with some lemonade." 

Crane stepped back. "I'm afraid I can't stay that long. I have some work down in the city." 

She pouted. "Please stay. It gets lonely up here. You say Reggie asked you to come?" 

"I met him yesterday. He's looking well." 

"He's always well," she said with a trace of a smile. "I never thought he'd die Did you, 

Mr...what is your name?" 

Crane stared at her helplessly. It would be wrong to lie, but Owen would kill him if he knew he'd been there. "Crane." 

"Crane." she smiled. "A bird. I like cranes. And herons. Did you think he'd die in that ambush, Mr. Heron?. " 

Crane realized that she was lost again in the mists of her mind. "The ambush, Mrs. Owen? The one in Ireland?" 

"Please call me Katie, Father Heron! Yes, that one, the ambush. They thought they'd killed him that time, but he came back from it, and I went to see him in that hospital in London." Her face clouded. "It was a nasty place, so cold. Don't you think this is a nicer place, Father?" 

"This is a lovely place," Crane assured her. "It is a very fine place." 

"It is the best place to die, don't you think?. " She said directly as she stared at him. "I'm dying, you know?" 

"Oh, no--" 

She began to cry, tears slipping down her face. "I am. l am! Don't lie to me, Reggie!" 

Crane, horribly embarrassed, stepped towards her, but heard footsteps in the hallway. He waited behind the door until the nurse came in. 

"Now what's this, Katie? Crying again? Your husband will be back in a few minutes and he won’t want to see you crying,” the nurse clucked. 

"I want a priest," Katie mumbled. "Father Heron..." 

Crane waited till the nurse's back was turned, then silently walked out the door and down the hall, his hands shaking. After a few feet, he removed the dark jacket, throwing it over his shoulder. 

Foremost in his mind was to get out of there before Owen reappeared with or without a priest. 

 

***

 

Carmondy looked around at the mountaintop where he was standing in the unmerciful hot sun, and thought what a splendid place to do photography. His camera clicked, the telephoto lens extended as far as it could be, towards the diggings down at Port Salinas. 

Alice sat on a rock waiting for him to finish. "Is it good enough for you, Adam?" 

"It's fantastic, Alice," he said with real enthusiasm. "I never knew such a place existed." 

"One of the natives showed it to me," she commented, as she came up behind him, putting her arms around his waist. "He was an Oxford graduate but came here from England years ago. He drives a minivan now." 

He lowered the camera, and turned in the circle of her aims, letting his hands drift from her shoulders down to her waist. "A native guide?”

"It’s the best way to see an island. Why are you really here, Adam?" she asked suddenly serious. 

Carmondy realized that she had leverage in the way she was holding him to throw him over the cliff behind them. Was she a spy for the Cubans? Impossible. Not with that accent. "I...am a tourist," he lied, looking straight into her blue eyes. "I told you that. I want to go to medical school."

"With that camera? What are you a photographer maybe for Vogue or Playboy?" Her eyes watched him avidly. 

"Playboy," he changed his story in a fraction of a second. "In my spare time." 

"Can you sell my picture to Playboy?" she asked, loosening her grip. "Am I pretty enough for Playboy, Adam?" 

"Alice, you are pretty enough for...anything," he said realizing the danger he was in. "Can I take your picture?" 

"With my clothes on or off?" she asked coquettishly. "Which way would you like me, Adam?" 

Carmondy's hands let go of her waist. "If you want to be in Playboy, we'll have to show them what you have, Alice." 

She stepped back and began unbuttoning the shirt, finally shrugging it off her sleek shoulders. "My daddy'll never believe it. I'll ruin his collection of Playboy --- he won't want the one with me on the cover!" 

"Why not ?" 

"Can't be a debutante and be in Playboy." She gave Carmondy a blinding smile. "Bet I can still get the richest man in town, though, any time I want. I'll even get him to marry me." 

She stepped out of her slacks. 

He gulped. "I'll bet you can, Alice. I'll bet you will." 

"Why don't you take off your shirt, Adam? You look very hot." 


	4. Saturday, October 15, 1983

Seaview was still running with red night lighting when Chip came up to take over from O'Brien. He rapidly checked that everything was running smoothly, then dismissed the night watch. 

The lights changed to their normal color and Chip settled down with a cup of coffee and the incoming messages that Sparks had gotten from the night radioman and passed on to him. 

Nothing from Crane or even that infernal pest, Carmondy. Morton hadn't expected to hear from the agent -- Carmondy would be too busy playing James Bond-cub to get in touch with his underwater taxi.

He realized he was crumpling the edge of the messages in anger and shook his head. 

Carmondy wasn't worth getting all stirred up about. He worried more about Crane who had been unenthusiastic when he filled Chip in on the mission and the things Morton would have to do with Washington so that Lee's cover wouldn't be blown if someone on Grenada got suspicious. 

Crane's insistence that this was a stupid way of getting information rang true with Morton. You'd think that the NSC would send someone with experience... 

The thought stopped him, and he put down the coffee cup on the chart table to consider it. This kind of a mission would be a perfect training mission for someone like Carmondy who was as green as his ivy leaves, especially if you had Lee along to make sure he was safe. Just a quick look around, Crane had called it. 

But Carmondy wouldn't have known it was a seasoning mission. The man had been deadly serious and totally committed to the belief that the Communists in Grenada were a threat to the United States. Morton snorted, causing Kowalski to raise his head. 

Chip savored the thought that maybe when Carmondy got back, he'd have an opportunity to tell the young man that he'd done a good first mission, just enough to give him some toning, since obviously nothing was happening in Grenada. Carmondy would blow a blood vessel. 

That was if Owen left him alive, The Major had been audibly wondering if Carmondy would make good shark bait by the time they'd left. Of course, he'd had a terrible headache mirroring the ones that Chip and Jamieson had had, and the submarine's coffee machines had been depleted in the sobering up period. 

"Kowalski!"

The rating turned around. "Mr., Morton?" 

"Anything on the sonar?" 

"No, sir. Only fish." 

Morton picked up the microphone. "Engineering, this is the Exec. Take her up to the surface." He clicked off the button and rehung the mike. "Kowalski, keep a good eye on radar." 

"Aye, aye, sir." Kowalski handed off the sonar headphones and headed for the radar console. 

Morton walked back to the radio room. "Sparks, I want you to listen in on Radio Free Grenada. See if you can tell what's going on." 

The radio officer nodded, his hands reaching for the dials. "I'll keep listening, Mr. Morton." 

Morton returned to the map table and picked up the next message and read it. So, the Admiral wanted an update on their coral reef survey? What the hell did this 'Save the Sponges' campaign mean?. 

***

Admiral Nelson walked into the hospital wearing a grim expression. He never knew which Dawber he was going to find when he visited -- the dying man or the recovering man. 

It was good to be free of Bennett and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Nelson had confirmed that Crane and the other agent, Carmondy, had reached Grenada and were reporting information, but it was still a fluid situation. The CIA contact in Grenada was currently in Barbados and refusing to return to the increasingly dangerous island. Bennett had said something about the Caribbean nations asking the United States for help but he was foggy on the details, and no one had pursued it further. 

Nelson suspected that Bennett knew everything, hut couldn't pass it along on orders from higher up. 

The first report was all bad. There was confirmation that the Cuban workers were increasing their work on the airfield; more were expected daily. The Marxist Prime Minister, Bishop, had been held incommunicado by his Vice President, Coard, and his trial was to be held soon enough. A roll of film had reached Bennett's hands from Carmondy, showing the island's layout, but the pictures weren't good enough to use for invasion plans. More photographs were promised if Carmondy could get the film off the island. 

The other report was written in Captain Crane's unmistakable turn of phrase and clarity. He must have been on the streets of St. George, and reported that the students were restlessly meeting all over the island and having marches that were soon broken up by the soldiers, wielding gun butts and other weapons. 

According to the manuscripts from Intelligence, Radio Free Grenada continued to broadcast Coard's hardline Marxist Party propaganda, along with lively salsa music and Spanish love songs. 

Nelson stepped off the elevator and walked down the empty corridor. At Dawber's room, he paused, seeing a woman wearing a bright red suit and a heavy gold necklace sitting opposite Dawber, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks made it clear he was better this morning than Nelson had seen him in weeks 

The Senator waved him. "Harry, I want you to meet Barbara--" 

"Wilkens," Nelson finished for him when Dawber started to cough. "Congresswoman?" He held out his hand. 

She rose and shook it, then neatly sat down again, tucking her skirt around her. "I didn't know you were a friend of Pete's," she commented with a reserved smile. 

"For years," Dawber cut in flashing a mischievous glance at Nelson. "Met him before I entered politics." 

"Really?" 

Nelson smiled back, a winning smile that reached his eyes, and made her soften. "Back too far to think about, Congresswoman." 

"Please call me Ms. Wilkens," she said briskly. "How are you doing on your coral research, Admiral?” 

Nelson had nearly forgotten his initial reason for coming to Washington in the rush of the last few days. Besides asking for an update from Chip Morton, he hadn't thought about the sponges. 

He blinked for a second, then covered by pulling in the other chair and sitting down. "Ah, it's going fairly well, Congresswoman." 

"Really? I thought it had been cut," she asked shrewdly. "Have you looked at the last reading of the bill, Admiral?." 

Nelson gave a sheepish grin, which made her smile back. "I'll admit it; I haven't had the opportunity. I did see the article the reporter wrote on the committee hearing. It was positive towards the reefs." 

The congresswoman shrugged. "Bleeding heart liberals want to save every flower on the planet but won't give good money to build a prison." 

"Now, Barbie," Dawber wheezed. "That's bunkum and you know it!" 

"Coral reefs are a little more fragile than flowers," Nelson said in his defense. “They're worlds as complicated as--" 

"Congress itself," Dawber cut him off. "Think of Congress as a coral reef, Barbie, full of life that a single oil can dumped in the House of Representatives would destroy." 

"If it destroys that old carpet, it will do a world of good," she snapped back. "All right, Admiral, tell me why I should give good money to coral reef research?" 

"Because you'll lose your kitchen sponge if you don't," Nelson retorted, trying to find common ground. "The reefs are as fragile as...as the flag that flew over Fort McHenry in the Smithsonian, and they're irreplaceable." 

Dawber leaned forward and stabbed a finger at Wilkens. "Barbie, you know how you like giving a poke at Jeff Abrams of Florida? Just imagine what it would do to his re-election campaign if he let the coral reefs by letting in the oil interests in off the Florida coast?" 

Nelson was lost to the full implications, but obviously the congresswoman wasn't. A vicious grin grew on her face as she thought about it. "But, then I'd have to reintroduce it as part of--" 

"And garner the love of the environmental lobby," Dawber said with obvious glee. "Something you could use out in Minnesota." 

"Have you been keeping up on the races, Pete?" she asked familiarly. 

"I always keep up with you," he retorted provocatively. "Think of it this way; give the money to the coral reefs. If, as Harry thinks," Dawber glanced at the admiral who was sitting with crossed arms looking defensive, "the reefs are in danger of permanent danger, then you can sponsor legislation that will prevent them from opening to the oil lobby. This will hurt Abrams and enhance your own standing. Who knows what might happen? If they overrule you and still open the reefs, then if there is an--" Short of breath, Dawber stopped. His ears and cheeks were flushed. 

"Accident," Nelson supplied seeing what his friend was up to. "You can say, 'I told you so', and then sponsor the bill where ..." 

"All right!" she snapped, throwing up her hands. "Pete, you haven't lost your touch one bit! I'll see if I can insert the funding back in the bill for you, Admiral. Now sit back down, Peter Dawber, and rest. If I knew that red had this effect on you, I'd be wearing a black dress!" She  
stopped abruptly realizing the exactly what she had said. 

Dawber moved in smoothly over her faux pas. "I've always liked you in sapphire, Barbie. Matched your eyes." He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "And I'm old enough to get away with that kind of sexist remark." 

She shook her head. "And I'm old enough to take it as a compliment rather than slapping you with a lawsuit, you old goat. So, what have you been doing, Admiral?" 

Nelson smiled. "I've been working with contractors on a new project for the Nelson Institute," he said. "Down at the Pentagon." 

"There has been a certain amount of traffic down at the Pentagon lately," she said with sudden interest. "Foreign interest." 

"Of course. With our troops in Lebanon, we have to remain alert." Nelson threw the red herring in front of her and was relieved to see her bite at it. 

"That's one of the President's most stupid moves," she said heatedly. "What is the logic of having those troops over there? It's stupid." 

"I agree," Dawber said unexpectedly. He was lying back on the white sheets, the color draining from his face, leaving his skin parchment. "The Lebanon fiasco is only just starting." 

Nelson shrugged, not wanting to agree or disagree with anything that might reflect on the President. He didn't want Wilkens to suddenly start thinking about any other topic. "So, how are you  
doing, Pete?" he asked to change the subject. 

"I'm fine today," lie said in a weaker tone than before. "But I think I'm just a little tired." 

Wilkens walked over to the hospital bed and squeezed the gnarled hand. "Then I'll leave you with the Admiral, Pete. Get well. We miss you up on the Hill." 

She knew, as did the Admiral and Dawber, that he wouldn't leave the hospital alive unless he made a miraculous recovery. 

Dawber squeezed back. "Who's got my office?" 

"No one. They wouldn't dare move in."

"See if you can get it, Barbie, when you win your Senate race. Nice view of the Washington Monument." 

She leaned over and kissed him unexpectedly, leaving a streak of red lipstick on his cheek. 

"Good-bye, Pete." 

Both men watched her leave. 

Dawber shook his head. “Helluva woman. Husband died, leaving her with three kids. Worked her w-ay up through school boards and country clerk's jobs. Hope she keeps up with the boys on the Hill." 

"She should work with your Linda," Nelson suggested. 

The old man wheezed a laugh that turned into a coughing fit. "They'd tear each other apart trying to be first. The men would call it a catfight. I don't think that's gonna happen for years, Harry." 

Nelson saw the man slumping. "Should I leave?" 

Dawber waved him back. "Tell me what you've really been up to, Nelson." 

The admiral gave him a rueful smile. "Can't hide a thing, can I, Pete? This time I have to." 

"Oh, hell, the President's gone and the military into something else," Dawber said, resignation in the tone of voice. "I hope he's not gonna get anyone killed." 

"I can't answer that," Nelson said, lacing his hands around one knee which he crossed on the other leg. 

"Then, I hope he gets Congressional approval," Dawber shot back, acidly. "Come on, Harry, give me a hint!" 

Nelson was saved by a knock on the door. Linda escorted Emily Dawber into the room. Nelson stood and gave up his chair. "I'll be back tomorrow, Pete," he called, grateful for the reprieve. 

The Senator stared at him, narrowing his dark eyes. "I'll find out, Harry. I'll find out." 

"Find out what?" Linda Gable asked looking at the admiral. 

"I'll see you later," Nelson replied retreating for the door. "Ms. Gable, Miss Dawber, good day." 

"Good day, Admiral," Emily said, her tones an echo of her Father's voice. 

Nelson felt nothing but relief. He'd check with the Pentagon office, then call back to Santa Barbara and see if there were any messages that he needed to take care of. 

 

***

 

Crane met Ann Westmark for lunch at one of the small restaurants that lined the claw-shaped peninsula that shaped Carenage Bay. The water was crowded with small fishing boats, a small steamer with rusty sides nestled next to one of the docks near the yacht club, and several rowboats tethered to the smaller wooden piers. It looked normal to the tourist eye except for the presence of a cluster of soldiers who wandered through the crowds of merchants and farmers in town to sell their Saturday wares and do business. 

The head waiter took him to a table separated from the road with an ornate but rusting metal fence, and he took the opportunity to survey the crowds in front of him. 

Two soldiers in Grenadian green jogged by, watching the people suspiciously. Their machine guns were casually slung over their shoulders. 

An armored car drove up the narrow streets, sending walkers to the sides of the roads as it roared up the hill, then the hubbub continued at a higher level, with an increase in tension. Crane uneasily realized that his seat was right on the street if anything happened. 

"Hi!" Ann appeared out of nowhere, her expression cheerful, and a large straw hat bedecked with gay ribbons in her hand. "Sorry, I'm late, but the alarm didn't go off and I was cataloging late last night." 

He smiled at her, taking in the bright yellow-and-white playsuit, with a simple white silk blouse underneath. Her legs were long and tanned, and she wore brown sandals. A pleasant change from the woman he'd met on the mountainside. "How'd you do with yesterday's take?" 

"The flowers are fine," she said, plopping the hat on his curly hair. "Welcome to Grenada. 

Everyone should buy a hat--it's a must for tourists. She picked up her red-striped napkin and laid it in her lap. "Have you ordered yet?" 

He pushed up the hat, then took it off and laid it on the empty chair beside him with a grin. "I thought the tuna in cream sauce." 

"Good choice! It's excel1ent. I'll have the same," she said to the waiter who bowed and took their menus. 

"So, what can I do for you, Mr. Crane?" she asked mischievously. “Somehow I have a hard time believing that you are just here on vacation." 

“How can you tell?" 

She dimpled. "You don't look like a fat businessman down here to take in the sights." 

"Well, I am a businessman, if not fat," Crane said to distract her. "Some friends of mine where planning on coming down for a weekend of hiking, but they seemed to have put it off for a couple of days." 

"So you have nothing but free time?" 

"Nothing but that." His attention was caught by a familiar face in the marketplace. 

"See someone?" she asked. She turned her head. "Oh, do you know him?" 

"Un-huh." 

She raised her hand, but Owen was already winding his way through the crowd, his restrained red pinstriped shirt and dark pants standing out against the more casual shorts and tee shirts of the crowds. "Mr. Crane, good afternoon." 

"Owen," Crane acknowledged warily. 

"Miss Westmark," Owen said, turning to the woman who smiled at him. 

"How delightful to see you again, Major," she said with an infectious giggle. 

"You know each other?" Crane asked curiously. 

"This is a small island, Mr. Crane," Owen said smoothly. "I know most of the visitors who come through." 

"I met him up at the yacht club," Ann added. "It's that white building over there, above the docks, beyond that ugly warehouse." 

"Near the tennis courts. Ann, why don't you bring him up there tomorrow for lunch?" Owen requested, his tone brooking no dispute. "I'll leave a note that I'm expecting you." 

"That sounds wonderful," Crane acknowledged, his gaze on Owen's face. It sounded like the Major had something to pass along. He hoped it wasn't that he'd seen Crane at the hospital. 

"Then, I'll see you both at noon,” Owen concluded stepping back. He walked back into the crowds. 

"A delightful man," Ann commented, as the waiter put their drinks on the table. "Such a gentleman.” 

"Yes," Crane agreed. "Have you known him long?" 

"Only since the beginning of this semester. He does sort of stand out, doesn't he? Like he has a poker down his back," she said with a chuckle. "The ladies on the campus are running a lottery on who might be...oh, never mind." She caught Crane's look of distaste. 

"His wife's very sick," Crane said with a slight reserve. 

"Oh, I know. The doctors at the hospital had to use the wireless at the college to do some long distance consultations when we lost international calling for a time," she commented, her face red with embarrassment. 

"Wireless?" 

"Ham radios. We have a couple up at the college, and one down at True Blue. Some of the guys are operators who can pick up stuff from all over the globe." 

Crane stored that information in the back of his mind, "Do you often lose international links?" 

"Oh, no," she said promptly. "It was just a power failure." 

The waiter set down their lunch. 

Crane tasted the fish, sweetly accented by nutmeg. "This is fantastic. So what do you do when you're not picking flowers, Ann? I'm fascinated. The closest I've ever gotten to orchids was at my high school prom." Sans the one that nearly ate Seaview of course, but Crane preferred to believe that entire incident was a mass hallucination. That was the way he and the Admiral had written it up. 

She swallowed "Well…" 

*** 

Carmondy climbed out of the minivan down near the Port Salinas construction and disappeared into the undergrowth. He had carefully selected the most unobtrusive of the tee shirts Crane had bought, forgetting to tell the captain that he'd taken it -- put a loose khaki shirt over it, and the dirty baseball cap he had bought off a street urchin. He looked like a tourist with his long- lensed camera around his neck. 

His hands were sweaty on the telephoto lenses as he shot frame after frame. The workers were clearly working at top speed, and the number of men was higher than in the reports he had read back in Washington. 

Sweat crawled down his back, soaking the thin shirt, and he could feel his skin burning in the hot sun. His eyes, behind the dark shades, squinted against the glare. 

He heard the tread of multiple pairs of boots coming down the road below his perch as a troop of Cuban workers, in cadence and with shovels on their shoulders, marched past singing a song. He took one photograph, then felt the camera stop. It stuck. The roll was finished. He fumb1ed at the bottom for the release, and wound the used film back into its container. 

Opening the back, he removed the cartridge and stuffed it in his inside shirt pocket, pulling out another fresh roll from his back pocket, and loaded it in the camera. 

Above him screeched a seagull, and a bird flew up behind him, giving him a shock. He took one last look at the landing strip and the workers, and climbed down the mountainside till he reached the road. 

His hands were bleeding by the time he reached the potholed road. The lava had scared his soft skin and given him a thousand small cuts. He sucked at the worst of them as he walked down the road back towards the city. 

Before he could react, a jeep come up behind him, making him flinch when a man bellowed an order in Spanish. It swung around him and stopped fifty feet in front; two Grenadian soldiers got out, leaving a third still at the wheel. 

Carmondy stopped, glanced from side to side looking for an escape, but there was none. On one side was a steep incline, impossible to climb, while the other was 1ined with sugarcane fields, the razor-sharp green leaves g1inting innocuously in the sunlight. 

The soldiers came up to him, one holding his rifle ready, while the other one had his hand outstretched. 

"Who are you?" the rifle less man demanded, his English laced with a Spanish accent. 

"I'm.... a tourist," Carmondy said, hating that a quiver entered his voice. "I was taking a walk- 

"This is a restricted area," the man said flatly. "Your papers?"

Carmondy fumbled for his passport, then remembered with a sinking heart that he'd left it behind. "It's at the hotel," he said weakly. "I've only got money -- " 

"Are you offering a bribe?" the man inquired, his voice plainly stating that if Carmondy were trying, he would be in jail in the next hour. 

"No, no, of course not," Carmondy babbled, holding up his hands placating. "But my ID's at the hotel!" 

The two soldiers exchanged glances, then the speaker held out his hand again. "The camera." 

"The camera?" 

“This is a restricted area and you have probably been taking pictures. We will confiscate your camera." 

"That's theft!" Carmondy gasped, stepping back. 

The soldier with the gun gave it a heft, and eyed him meaningfully 

"If you wish your camera back, go to the police office in St. George," the spokesman said menacingly, his other hand resting on his pistol. "It will be there tomorrow. Now, your camera." 

Carmondy tried swallowing the large lump in his throat. If they got the camera, they would be able to tell that it was powerful enough to get close-ups of the runway. But he had no choice in  
the matter, as the gunman made clear, moving his dark fingers to the safety on the rifle. 

Reluctantly, Carmondy lifted the camera over his head and held it out. "I'll look for it then, tomorrow?"

"Now, your film," the man said with a sneer.  
Carmondy thought instantly of the roll in his shirt, then realized the man was pointing to the bulge in his jean's pocket where the third unused roll was clearly evident. He pulled it out and held it out, hoping that the looseness of his shirt would hide the important canister. 

The man hung the camera around his neck, then put the film in his pocket. 

"Can I go now?" Carmondy asked meekly. 

"Can we offer you a ride?" the man asked in a mild tone as if he hadn't been sneering a second before. "Where are you headed?" 

"Uh-ah-- I was going down to True Blue," Carmondy lied. 

"A long walk. We will take you to the crossroad and you can get a taxi," the man suggested firmly.

He had no choice. Carmondy followed them back to the jeep and settled in the back as far away from the soldier as he could get. The jeep moved off, hitting every pothole on the jolting ride. 

 

***

 

Owen sat with his legs dangling off one of the wooden docks and surveyed the emptying harbor with a peaceful expression. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned his head. 

Anslem stopped several feet away. "Major?" 

Owen looked at him in curiosity. "Harbor Master?"

"I need to have you sign some papers," Anslem said, squatting down on the splintering wood. Beside them, the tide was washing against the wooden stakes, bringing with it pieces of debris and paper, as well as dead fish. It was unsavory to look at as well as unhygienic. 

Owen started to rise, but Anslem waved the papers in his hand and they sat down. "What's this?"

“Your report on the Lambi,” the thin man said nervously. “I have written it up for you.” 

Owen took the sheet and surveyed it, only mildly surprised to see a written paragraph on the size and army of the Cubans contingent he’d been watching decamping from a small schooner across the bay. “Are you sure this is for me?”

I thought you would like to know about the resolution,” Anslem replied. “Dealli’s wife is bereaved. She may planning on asking the British government for help.” 

Owen didn’t bat an eye. “I believe the British government will feel it’s the fortunes of war., Anslem, and will consider that all has been done that can be done. If it’s the will of the Powers-That-Be that Dealli die on the water, then they will do nothing.” 

"Will you do something, Major?" Dealli asked. He understood Owen s words -- that the Grenadians would get no help from the British Government or the Governor-General. Grenada was a self-governing island. 

“I am not in a position to do anything, Anslem,” Owen said sincerely. “I’m not on active duty. Have you tried Scoon?”

The Harbor Master drew himself up. “The soldiers are questing everyone’s movements. I’m surprised that Governor-General Scoon is still o n the Island. 

Owen let out a slight whistle. "Is he a prisoner? That would get everyone's attention." 

“Not as far as I've heard,” Anslem said. He looked at the paper Owen held out to him. "So, you can’t do anything?” 

Owen grimaced and glanced back at the schooner. "I make no promises." 

“Thank you!” Anslem tore up the sheet and cast it into the water, watching as the paper dissolved in the detritus. And how is Mrs. Owen?”

Owen's expression grew gloomy. "She's not well." 

Anslem looked embarrassed. "I only hope she recovers, Major." 

"Me too." Owen watched the man trot towards the main street, then returned to watch the schooner as the sun set over the island.


	5. Sunday, October 16, 1983

"Heard anything from Captain Crane, Sir?." Kowalski asked Commander Morton as they walked into the radio room. 

Chip shook his head. “Not a word. It's been three days." 

"Think there could be trouble?" the rating persisted. 

"Not from all the radio traffic Sparks has been picking up," Chip said reassuringly. "The pot's boiling there, but nobody's been killed yet." 

"There's been rioting in the streets, sir?." 

"Some," Chip said reluctantly. "We're waiting for word from Washington, Kowalski, The Admiral's going to keep us in touch." 

"I'm glad he's there, sir," Kowalski said simply, then slid on his headphones. 

"So am I," Morton murmured as he walked down the length of the control room and took command from O'Brien, who yawned widely, then left for his bunk. 

“So what have we got, Patterson?" Morton asked the sonar man, who was leaning over the console. 

"Got some illegal fishing going on, Commander," the stolid rating said, pointing to some dots. "Look like trawlers using deep nets for the tuna." 

"Unfortunately, we can't do anything about that except notify the Coast Guard," Morton commented. "Any other subs or military around?" 

"No, sir. Heard from the Admiral or Captain Crane?" 

Morton realized this was going to be the question of the day. "Nothing yet." 

Chip went back to the radio shack, and Sparks held up his hand. 

"Sir, I've been listening for most of the morning. Nothing but propaganda and music." 

"Keep at it, Sparks." 

The radio officer looked wistful. "I just wish they sang in English, sir." 

Chip patted him on the shoulder. "Just think of it as a crash course in a foreign language, Sparks." 

"Aye, aye, sir." 

***

Crane and Ann met at the doorway to the yacht club. His late rising made him miss Carmondy, who had come in late the night before, blurted out some tale about being picked up and grilled by the Cubans, encoded his report and then tumbled into bed with several cans of beer and the television on. In his own self-interest, like getting some sleep, Crane had stormed in from his bedroom at midnight, to find the young man snoring face-down on his bed, empty cans on the floor, and the television still blaring. He'd switched off the set and tossed a blanket over the sleeper, then encoded his own report, and put it with Carmondy's. 

Crane suspected his "partner" was starting to view this as a vacation, nor as work. Carmondy had claimed he was going to rent a boat and sail around the island, looking for signs of Cuban infiltration. Crane suspected he was going to work on his tan. 

He was brought back to present time as he crossed the threshold. The yacht club was very much in the English colonial style, with lazily-turning fans overhead, shuttered blinds, and comfortable leather chairs sitting in front of the open veranda doors, so that leaders could browse the morning newspapers and drink coffee. Outside, a balcony overlooked the Harbor where schooners and fishing boats raised their brilliantly-colored sails and set off across the azure ocean. 

British accents drifted out of the bar and the dining room, and the head waiter showed up beaming a welcome as they walked to the restaurant. 

Owen waved to them from a table set out on the balcony. He had managed to secure a reasonably private table with a view. They joined him, and ordered. 

The major eyed Crane's hat, which he was wearing out of some obscure loyalty to Ann's gift as well as to maintain his cover as a tourist. It also kept the heat off his head. "So, how do you like Grenada, Mr. Crane?" he asked, unfolding his napkin. 

Crane grinned as he looked around. "It is a perfect place for a vacation." 

"And for work," Ann put in. "J found another set of rare orchids yesterday after we parted, Lee." 

"Did you take it back for study?" Owen said. 

"Yes, but I'm going to have to find a better way to transport the plants," she commented. "They were wilting by the time I reached True Blue." 

"Your office is there, isn't it?" Crane asked. 

"My cubbyhole is there," she replied. "You should come and see it, Lee." 

Crane blinked for a second. "I'd love to," he said gallantly, "if I have some free time." 

"Make it," Owen advised him. "It's quite an impressive show down at True Blue. Have you been all over the island, Mr. Crane?" 

Crane picked up on the hint. "Not really. I went up to the park, but most of the time I spend down here in St. George. Do you have a recommendation?" 

Owen shot him a restrained grin. "You really should check out True Blue and Frequente. The views there--" 

"Oh, Frequente!" Ann said unexpectedly. "You know, I went through there to get to True Blue and it was jammed with those Cubans who are building the e airport. Hell of a lot of troops as well. I wouldn't want to take the main road down there." 

The gazes of the two men met. Troops down at True Blue, huh? 

"The main road is two lanes of potholes," Owen said dryly. "It's better than taking some of the side roads." 

"I like to walk," Crane murmured. "Maybe I'll head down there." 

Ann shrugged. "I still would avoid them. The soldiers leer so much, and make comments. Everyone on campus is starting to complain." She folded her napkin and put it by her plate. "If you gentlemen would excuse me for a moment, I'm going to the powder room." 

The men half-rose, then reseated themselves as she disappeared inside. 

"What have you got, Major?" Crane asked under his breath. 

"Nothing official," Owen replied sotto voce. "But a boat load of new workers landed yesterday and headed for the military barracks." 

"Carmondy took some shots of the new airstrip yesterday." 

"Has he been able to get it off the island?." 

Crane shook his head. "He missed the flight out and has had to wait. You'd think he'd never missed a plane in his life from the fuss he put up!" 

"Probably he'd expected it to wait for him. Things are building up, Crane," Owen muttered. "One of my contacts says that they might ask Scoon for British help. I smell a lot of trouble. You might want to -- ah, Ann!" He rose and seated the woman then sat down again. 

"Anything interesting going on?. " she asked brightly. 

Both men shook their heads. "We were discussing fishing," Owen said casually. "Crane wanted to know where to go for good tuna." 

"I heard that you had an accident?" she said solicitously. "'What happened, Major?" 

Owen smiled and began his story about the Lambi as Crane ate his fish in silence. 

***

Carmondy let his feet dangle over the edge of the boat, and rested his chin on the railing as he looked over the sapphire water. Behind the boat, the tall volcanic shores of Grenada towered. 

They were anchored in a secluded cove with only the seagulls for company. 

 

Behind him, he heard the clink of glasses and the sound of feet, and he turned his head. 

Felicia climbed around the mast, two glasses of whiskey and ice in her hands. The bikini covered the bare minimum of her body, but the white semitransparent blouse gave her some protection from the sun. Huge coin-sized earrings dangled from her lobes. 

It was more protection than Carmondy had. He could feel the sun's rays sinking deep into his shoulders, turning them red with burn. 

"I'll put some lotion on those in a minute," Felicia said sinking down beside him and offering him a glass. "I'm glad that you could come out today." 

"I'm glad I could too," Carmondy said feelingly. "You and the others have been very helpful, Felicia." 

"Are you still planning to come here to school?" she asked lazily. 

"School. Well, Grenada is very different from New England," he joshed back. 

"I would say you came from the Washington area," she said. 

His eyelids flickered. "Washington? State or DC?" 

"DC. It's your accent," she said sweetly. "I used to live down there. It's a lovely area.” 

"I went there on a senior trip," he said agreeably, taking a sip of whiskey. He'd have to work on the accent problem for his next job. "It's certainly not the Caribbean." 

“No.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. 

"So, why did you choose Grenada?" Carmondy asked unexpectedly. 

She smiled lazily and raised her hand above her head, stretching her back muscles. His eyes were drawn to her breasts outlined by the cloth. 

"The sand. The surf. I got accepted. What more did I want?" she purred. She let her hand drop on his shoulder and he flinched. "Let me get the lotion, and I'll rub it in. By the way, Toni told me you weren't quite prepared for her. Don't worry--I carry my own protection against...men." She let her voice drift off as she smiled. 

Carmondy watched her sway with the swing of the boat as she went towards her bag, and thought that he was probably the luckiest agent in all of the United States service. It looked like another notch on his belt. 

He shifted and winced as his sore back protested. "I'll stay on top," he mumbled. 

 

***

 

Nelson couldn't believe his eyes. In the restaurant next to the Library of Congress, Linda Gable was sitting across from an odd couple dressed in layers of turtlenecks and large cable-knit sweaters. The man wore slacks and what looked like hiking boats while the woman's skirt brushed the floor. Cups of coffee steamed in front of them in the chill air. 

Linda waved at him and he threaded his way through a crowd of overworked Capital Hill staffers and bundled-up tourists out for a Sunday stroll. 

The man held out his hand. "John Hill. I'm from the Terra Savers Coalition." 

"Mr. Hill." Nelson remembered Linda saying that the environmental movement might be very useful, but he hadn't realized he was going to actually talk with them. 

"I'm Dorrit Beale from the Earth/Sea Coalition," the long-haired woman introduced herself as her gaze scanned him critically. "Linda says you need some help, Admiral. Something about the coral reefs." 

Nelson thought this couldn't have come at a worse moment. In three hours he was supposed to be at the White House to brief Charlie Bennett on what the military might be able to do in Grenada, and here he was discussing coral reefs. Didn't these peop1e have anything better to do on a Sunday? "The Nelson Institute is doing a study on the coral reefs in the Florida Keys area. Congress is threatening to cut the funding for it." 

"Our current president is hardly an environmentalist,,' Dorrit said with a twisted smile. "It's not often that Congress agrees with him." 

"Do you predict anything else will be affected in the Caribbean area other than the sponges?” Hill asked, his hands cupped around his coffee 

"The entire ecosystem will be affected," Nelson replied, waving to the waitress who took his order, then brought over black coffee. 

"It's also in front of the committee where your friend Cronke resides, John," Linda said with in impish smile 

John made a quick cutting movement with one hand. "That idiot! I swear it will serve him right if all the Redwood forests in Washington State are cut down to make paper pulp. He wouldn't know a good environmental statement if it bit him." 

"And boasts that he likes to go hiking as well," Dorrit said dourly after swallowing a mouthful of coffee. "Probably a big snake should pay his tent a visit. Well, if Cronke wants to kill it, it's probably a worthwhile study, Admiral. Are you the Admiral who has a submarine?." Her bright eyes studied him inquisitively. 

"Seaview is partly owned by the Nelson Institute and the Department of Defense,” Nelson said calmly, staring her down. 

"It's a nuclear submarine?. " Dorrit asked sweetly. 

"And carries offensive weapons as well," Linda cut her off with a slightly mocking smile. "And is classified as well you know, Dorrit." 

"Nuclear submarines are the least offensive ecologically of all the subs," Hill said reprovingly. "I've heard good things about the Seaview." 

“Yes, but--" Dorrit protested. 

"Without the sub, you have no intimate studies of the mating habits of squids, which I know you have a fascination for," Paul mocked. "Let be, Dorrit, Let's help the man." 

"What do we get for it?" Dorrit asked belligerently. 

"We save the sponges," Paul replied. "We get a strike against Cronke, and do something positive for the Nelson Institute for Marine Research. I do hope we'll have a chance to look at the data, Admiral. " He studied Nelson carefully. 

"And, if we're right, you we’ll have a strike against the oil and gas lobby," Linda said to Dorrit.

Her eyes glittered in anticipation. "So, what do you want us to do, Admiral?. " 

Nelson sent a frantic glance at Linda. "Well?" 

"The first thing you need to do is file some papers with all three of the Congressional offices involved: Cronke, Temple of lowa, and Wilkens from Minnesota. Say you've heard that they want to do away with the money. That will catch their attention enough to make them think twice. Then, we can send a press release out, but I think, don't you agree, Admiral," she rapped her nails on the Formica table in emphasis, "we should give them a chance to reply to the filings. Then if they are still intent on cutting the subsidies, we go to the press." 

Nelson felt as if the ground had turned to mud and was sucking him down. The last thing he wanted in the next week was to get involved with the press. Mentally, he cast his fate to the winds, and said, "That sounds good, Linda. I'll leave it up to you to be the point-of-contact." 

She nodded "Fine." 

"I've got your number at the office," Hill said briskly. "Dorrit, we must discuss the rain forest 

problems before the day is out." 

"Then I will leave you to it," Nelson said, seizing the opportunity offered. "I have another meeting as it is." 

"Will you be at the hospital tonight?" Linda asked looking up at him. 

"Yes. At four? How is Pete?." 

"That old rake. He'll outlive us all." 

 

*** 

 

Crane let himself into the hotel room late that evening. It had been an exhausting day hiking out to Frequente and counting the troops that milled around the area. He had managed to get a ride on the way back, but his feet wee still sore and blistered. He peeled off his bloody socks and eyed the wounds with a frown. 

After a shower and some bandaging, he knocked on the connecting door to Carmondy's room. After a second, he went inside. 

The bed was turned down but the sheets were undisturbed. In fact, it looked as if Carmondy wasn't coming back that night. 

Crane shook his head, half in admiration. Which one of the women was he with right now? 

The captain had little doubt about what was happening, but that wasn't part of his job at the moment. If Carmondy lived long enough to grow out of his James Bond period, he might make a good agent. First of all, he would have to learn to pass on multiple women. 

Crane unscrewed the metal ball on the end of the iron bedstead and pulled out the slip of paper' where the codes wee for the nightly report. He went back to his room to encode his information in preparation for sending it out on the next day's flight to Washington. 

He was almost finished when he heard a creak and groan from the next room. Carefully putting down his pencil, he stood and covered his paper with an open Bible, then crept over to the connecting door. 

Listening carefully, he was reassured by a familiar voice groaning and cursing in the next room. Without knocking, Crane opened the door and walked in. 

Carmondy looked up at him with tired eyes set in a beet-red face. He looked like a lobster dressed in flowered shorts and a white shirt that clung damply across his shoulders. It was a woman's blouse, in fact, something Crane noticed with curiosity. 

"What do you want?" Carmondy asked in a surly tone. 

"I'm almost finished with my response. Were you planning on sending them both out tomorrow?" 

'*If I live so long," Carmondy groaned. "Yeah, it goes out on the morning flight which leaves at ten am. It has to be at Pearls airport by then." 

"Do you want me to do it?." Crane inquired. "You'd better put something on that burn." 

Carmondy let his head sink into his hands for a second. "I am so hot... Yeah, you do it, Crane. You know the address?" 

"I know it." Crane hesitated, then said, "Got anything today that you can add to your report?"

Carmondy glared at him out of blood-shot eyes. "Nothing to add except that the coastline is extremely rocky. You can't make an amphibious landing. They'll have to come in by plane." 

"Are we going to invade then, Carmondy?" Crane asked. 

"The United States doesn't invade other sovereign countries," Carmondy said in a goaded tone. "Now, get out of here." 

"Have a good night," said Crane walking out and shutting the door. Leaning on the wood, he began to laugh, well aware that Carmondy could hear it.


	6. Monday, October 17, 1983

"What the hell are you up to, Nelson?" Bennett asked coldly across the expanse of oaken desk. Sunlight flooded in through the two windows that flanked him, casting the National Security  
Advisor in shadow. 

"What do you mean, Charlie?" The Admiral wondered for a second which activity Bennett was frowning on. 

"My contacts on the Hill tell me that Barbara Wilkens has reopened discussion on your coral reef proposition. If you had been at the hotel this morning, you would have gotten a summons to the hearing room," his friend said acerbically. "And, exactly where the hell were you?" 

Nelson shook his head in amazement. "I thought Wilkens had given up on that! Pete--" 

"Oh, I might have guessed Dawber was behind this," Bennett said disgusted. "Harry, forget about the reef and the ecosystem. What's going on with the plans for Grenada?" 

"Grenada?." The Admiral switched gears with a flash. "Well, without operational orders, we can't go much further. The Pentagon's ordered up all the DIA and ClA information on the country and that's being assembled." 

***

Toni settled down on the sand beside Felicia and Alice, who were already sunbathing. "So, what do you think?”

"I think that have an exam tomorrow and I’m still not sure of what's going on," Felicia said dreamily. 

"Don't be silly, Felli," Alice reproved. "You mean Adam?." She giggled. "What a name." 

"Yes, he doesn't seem an Adam type, does he?." Felicia commented. 

"Well?" Toni demanded 

Alice leaned upon one arm, her smile broad. "Well, he has endurance, at least." 

"But he's a little too fast," Felicia said, bored. "Not really into making you feel like you are having a good time. More like he satisfies himself...and you're just convenient."

"I didn't find that," Alice said. "He was just great. Better than my uncle! And Adam doesn't use rubbers either." 

The others glanced at her, then exchanged a quick look of concern. Alice definitely had her hang-ups, which weren't their responsibility. If she made it out of medical school it would be a miracle...or judicious application of cash. 

"I do hope you were more careful than he was, then," Felicia said with a slight edge. "How about you, Toni?." 

"I'm always careful. I agree with both of you. If Adam takes the time, he's worth the effort. But he always has to be first -- he has to learn that it's a partnership," Toni said with the sound of experience in her voice. "Do you really think he's looking into the school, or just to score?." 

"Well, he's got some kind of agenda," Felicia said, her eyes closing. "I'm not sure he'd make it through medical school. Doesn't have the brains to be a surgeon." 

"He's a skin man. Dermatologist?" Alice added. 

"More like a cosmetologist," Toni commented leaning back and putting her sunglasses on. 

"Well, before he leaves, let's find out what Mr. Freeman is really up to." 

"I'll ask him later. I'm meeting him for lunch," Felicia said. 

*** 

Crane was cool under his gift hat as he walked towards the small terminal at Pearls airport. 

The manila envelope in his hands was wrinkled from sweat. The short airstrip was angled upward in a tree-choked valley that ran between two forests. 

The guards eyed him with curiosity when he reached the shade and paused for a second. They seemed less uptight than the troops down in the city as they laughed and joked. 

The terminal was crowded with two small cargo planes and incoming tourists, a microcosm of trade with the small island. The airmail counter' was filled with a long line of people placidly waiting to send their letters home. 

Crane felt foreboding growing as he eyed the line. He had arrived an half-hour early for the outgoing mail flight, but he hadn't taken into account that other people had missed the mail the day before, and therefore were queued to send out. 

“Lee?" 

He heard the name, but didn't respond to it, until someone laid their hand on his forearm. Then he swiveled so fast that he startled Ann Westmark. 

"Didn't you hear me?." she asked with a mischievous grin. 

He smiled back. "Sorry, I was thinking that I have to get this out on that flight but..." He waved to the line of people. 

"Can it be mailed from the mainland?" she asked curiously, craning her head to see the address "Want me to take it?" 

Crane thought for a second, cold-bloodily weighing the options. If she was caught with it, Ann would undoubtedly turn him in, but why would they search her? Why would they even think it was dangerous? From the tags on her carry-on, she flew in and out of Pearls quite often. He looked at the slowly-moving line again, then handed her the envelope. "I'd really appreciate this, Ann." 

She hefted it. "Wow, vacation photos?" 

"A long letter for a friend and some tee shirts," Crane lied smoothly. "You know how some people get if you don't get a gift." 

"Sounds like my former graduate advisor," she said with a grin. "I'll be in Washington in a week -- want me to hand-deliver this ." 

"No, just toss it into the mail," Crane asked hastily. "I'll trust the Postal Service to get it there in a day or so...." 

She smiled mischievously. "Tell you what, Lee. Give me a couple of bucks and I'll use Federal Express. They guarantee delivery in twenty-four hours." 

He pulled out two American tens from his wallet and handed them over. "That would be a life-saver." 

She tucked the bills into her pocket. "Want to do dinner when I get back? Will you be here in three weeks?. " 

Crane devoutly hoped not. "That sounds great. You know where I'm staying. Just drop by." 

Ann startled him with a quick kiss on the cheek, then waved as she stuffed the envelope into her bag, and headed for the counter, He watched her go through the customs and head out towards the small plane that sat under the baking sun on the tiny runway. 

Turning around, he noted one of the soldiers eyeing him suspiciously. Crane met his gaze, smiled, then walked out of the terminal. 

***

Carmondy's mind skittered between his job here and the women. They were certainly a pleasant diversion from the stress of finding out about the airport and the problems with getting the information off the island. He felt like James Bond with numerous women at his beck and call, and danger in the offing. It brought a slight strut to his walk as he climbed to the white-fenced terrace that led to the hospital building. 

The contrast between the tropical paradise outdoors and the inside of the building with its walls of institutional white and slippery viny1 flooring brought him down to earth with a harsh thud.

Bulletin boards lined the right wall with numerous posted signs telling of club meetings, parties and assignments. 

He checked his watch and saw it was five minutes before classes started. Idly, he wandered over to the bulletin board and began reading. 

A tarot reading club. A lecture on the uses of voodoo in modern medicine; that wasn't one he hoped the doctors attended! The local ham radio club met in the basement of the building he was in and was advertising their latest upgrades in equipment. Carmondy had worked with ham radios before and devotedly wished the operators well. He'd preferred to work with the high-tech equipment on Seaview which wasn't always blowing a fuse or breaking a tube. His radio had been inherited from his grandfather and worked like it had been created in the nineteen-twenties. 

"Mr. Freeman?" Felicia called from the other end of the hallway. He swung around and smiled, taking in her black and white striped sundress and a straw hat with a black bandanna. 

"It's nice to see you again, Felicia. I hadn't expected your call." 

She put her hand on his arm, ignoring his wince as she hit his sunburn. "How do you feel, Mr. Freeman?" 

"I'm fine. Just a little overheated," he admitted sheepishly under her knowing gaze. "I got a little sunburned yesterday. The sun--" 

"Yes, I remember. The sunblock didn't work down there," she said in a superior tone. She took the bag from his hand. "Oh, is this my shirt? I'm glad you returned it." She slid her hand under his elbow. "Were you planning on looking over- the building?" 

"Yes, I was." Carmondy thought suddenly that his luck was coming through again. "I saw a sign for the Ham Radio society," 

"Why, that's right downstairs," she said, "in the basement." Her hand dug into his biceps unexpectedly and he winced again. "And I want to ask you about Alice and your taking advantage of her." 

"Advantage of her.?" Carmondy realized his hens had come to roost. "l don't know what you're talking about." 

*** 

Owen walked up the staircase to Katie's room, his stride reluctant. It was becoming harder and harder to face her. 

He could hear her singing in Gaelic as he paused outside the door, then pushed it open and went inside. 

The evening sun was streaming in the windows, the thin linen curtains pulled so the room was suffused in light. 

She was looking out the windows, her voice faltering. 

Owen took the flowers from the previous day and put them in the trash can, then put his new ones in the vase. His nose winkled slightly from the smell of the sick woman, but his face was impassive when he looked at her. He poured the remainder of the frangipane perfume in a small pot and put it on the bed stand. 

"Katie?" he whispered, sitting in a chair set beside her bed. 

She stopped singing, and rolled her head towards him. "Who are you?" 

Owen's eyes shut for a second in pain, then flickered open. "You know who I am, Katie." 

"No, I don't know...Colonel Welch." she asked. 

Welch. Lieutenant Colonel Welch was his commanding officer. They hadn't seen him since the wedding, where he had sat in the middle of the church with a frown on his face. He hadn't approved of Owen marrying an Irishwoman. 

"No, Katie, it's Reggie." 

"Colonel, I'm not one of them," she said still staring at Owen. "I don't even know them." 

"What the..." Owen felt a cold chill down his spine as she continued to stare at him. "Katie!" 

"I would never ask him to...tell me anything. I'm not involved in the struggle, Colonel. Don't force him out," she said suddenly strongly. "He loves the Marines!" 

Owen caught her jaundiced hands. "Katie! Katie! Don't you remember? I asked to leave the day I asked you to marry me. I didn't want to get caught between the army and the Irish problem!" 

"I know you said he was passing information to the Republicans, but it's not true, Colonel, it's not true..." her voice trailed off. She looked out the window again. 

Owen was dumfounded. "Passing information... Did he claim I was passing information to the IRA? Oh, God." Everything became clearer in that second. No wonder the Ulster Protestants had thought he’d gone over to the IRA, if his commanding officer had that thought. All Welch had had to do was drop a hint or suggestion, and the Protestants would have seen it as the truth. Welch could even have set up the ambush...his mind refused to accept that particular scenario. The thought that he had been betrayed by his own commander was something he didn't want to consider. It had been the IRA that shot him, with intent, and Katie, by accident...right? 

He shook his head to clear it, then tightened his grip on Katie's hands. 

"Katie?" 

She looked back at him for a second, then smiled. "Reggie?" 

"Katie..." he smiled encouragingly at her. "I love you so much." 

"I..." her eyes suddenly widened. "Who are you?" 

Owen groaned and let his head sink down on the white counterpane. For a second, he thought he was going to cry, then realized he was. 

***

Crane limped with aching feet toward the hotel, He had walked for miles that day when it became clear that no minivans were heading down towards the city and the only way back was to hike. The last five miles had taken it out of him; no matter how he had tried to stay in shape on Seaview; he still ached. 

"Mr. Crane!" 

Startled to hear his name, he swiveled. 

The hotel manager, Matou, fluttered from behind the counter. "Mr. Crane, I've been trying to reach you. You have a visitor!" 

"Crane!" The yell was loud and harsh. Crane looked up to see Owen leaning over the balustrade of the second floor. He looked unsteady and in danger of falling over.

"He's been waiting for you," Matou said grimly. 

"I'll take care of him," Crane reassured the man. "Owen, let's go to my room. Reg?" 

Owen waved a beer. "Have a drink." 

He was drunk, thoroughly dunk, Crane concluded. It wasn't the first time he had seen a man trying to drown his sorrows in a bottle. He was just glad Carmondy wasn't here to see it. Owen would probably kill the boy for the good of the rest of the world. "Not here. Let's go back to my room." 

"More whiskey?" Owen asked solicitously. 

"More whiskey," Crane agreed. "Come on." 

Nodding at Matou, he led Owen back to the elevator.

Owen groaned. Crane worried that he was suddenly going to be sick there and there. "Major?" 

Owen shook his head, then swayed. "I'd better not do that," he said groggily, though in a clearer tone. "This room's moving."

"It’s an elevator." 

It pinged to a stop and Crane led the man into the hallway, belatedly praying that Carmondy wouldn't be around to see them, He hadn't seen his partner in almost a day. 

He opened the door and led Owen into the bedroom where he sat him down in a chair by the window. "What happened, Reg?" he asked, getting out two glasses and a bottle of wine from the well-stocked refrigerator in the room. 

Owen waved his hand in dismissal, his earlier joviality dissipated in a second. "Nothing." 

"I've never seen you so drunk," Crane said bluntly. "What happened, Major?" 

"My wife," Owen stated flatly. 

Crane had a sudden sick feeling. Had Owen found out that Crane visited his wife? "Your wife?. " he asked tentatively. 

"Katie. She's...she's not well," Owen concluded. "She's very unwell." 

Crane realized with vast relief that Owen didn't know about his visit. He belatedly remembered that, to Owen, he didn't know anything more than Owen's wife was in the hospital. "What's the problem?" 

"She's dying," Owen said flatly. "Tonight, tomorrow. They kicked me out, you know." 

"They kicked you out..." Crane trailed. "Who?" 

"The hospital. Told me to go home. Told me she wouldn't recognize me anyway. They kicked me out," Owen said in a morose tone. "Where's my bottle?" 

"I'm sorry, Major'," Crane said sincerely. 

"She didn't know me today. She called me Welch. Welch must have had some kind of a talk with her before the wedding," Owen said disjointedly. "Tried to talk her out of it." 

Crane was lost at sea. "Welch?." 

"Lieutenant Colonel Welch, my commander. He didn't want me to get married. Not to an Irish woman. Said it was a breach of security. I told him to stuff it up his--" 

"Right," Crane cut him off. "You married her anyway." 

"Right, I did. I tried to resign from the Marines, you know, but he said I had to finish up the month." Owen took the glass of wine Crane held out. "Then they caught us, shot us up." 

"So, she called you by his name," Crane summarized. "Don't worry, Reg, she'll know you tomorrow--" 

"She thought he'd set us up," Owen said in sudden soberness looking at Crane. "Katie thought Welch might have dropped a hint or something to the Protestants. I always thought it was the IRA that shot us." 

Crane felt stunned and hoped he didn't look it. He shook his head violently trying to clear it of the unpalatable material. "No CO worth his salt would do that. Forget it, Owen." 

Owen blinked owlishly. "You don't think so?" 

"I know so. No CO would do that." 

"I didn't think so either. She did," Owen mumbled. "He wouldn't have thought I'd pass information over either..." 

"He thought, no, she thought that you'd... " Crane shook his head trying to follow Owen's train of thought. "Forget it, Owen! She wouldn't even tell a priest about your work!" 

Owen's eyes focused on Crane. "What?. " 

"What she said." 

"What do you know about what she would or wouldn't tell?." Owen asked in sudden belligerence 

Crane realized a second later that he'd betrayed himself. "I don't think your wife would be that type of a woman--" 

"And what type of a woman would marry someone like me? I'm a damned sniper, Crane, I kill people for--" 

"You're a military officer!" Crane yelled back, trying to break through Owen's clouded mind. He should have expected this. 

Owen glared at him. "And what kind of a bloody officer has a hat like this!" He snatched up Crane's straw hat and ripped it in half, 

Crane held up his hands pleadingly though the loss of Ann's gift was almost a relief. 

"Owen... 

Owen threw aside the hat, and jumped towards him to meet with Crane's fist. The captain hit him a second time, in the stomach, when the first one seemed to have no effect. The soldier swayed uncertainly for a second, then collapsed in a heap that made the  
pictures rattle in their frames. 

Crane hoisted him onto the bed and removed his shoes. "Sleep well, Major. It'1l be better tomorrow." 

He checked Carmondy's room. Empty. Crane shrugged and picked up the wine bottle, took a slug, then re-corked it, and put it away in the refrigerator.


	7. Tuesday, October 18, 1983

Owen felt like a thousand world-class drummers were playing rock-and-roll between his temples. His mouth tasted like a Belfast sewer and lie had the terrible impression that he had probably thrown up on his shirt. 

A second later he realized he wasn't wearing his shirt. His hand brushed over the familiar feeling of a cotton undershirt. 

Finally, he opened his eyes a slit and saw bars of sunlight across the room, patterning the sheets which were tangled around his legs from restless sleep. 

All he wore was the under shirt and his boxer shorts. His clothes from the previous evening were draped over the chair next to the small desk. One window was cracked open and cool morning air came in. 

He sat upright, his joints creaking in protest and his vision blurring for a second, and ran his hands through his long hair, trying to remember the night before. 

Bits of memory floated in and out as he staggered to the bathroom, avoided looking at the mirror, then turned on the shower. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped inside and washed himself clean, feeling the steam clearing his head of wine fumes. 

The wine, the discussion, Crane...Crane! Where was he . Owen turned off the water, and stepped out, snagging one of the white towels by the door and drying himself. Wrapping the towel around himself, he walked back into the bedroom. 

His mind clearer, he could see that the pictures on the walls were crooked probably from his fall. There were indications that Crane had slept on one of the chairs, and probably gone out earlier in the morning. His discarded clothing sat in a heap by one doorway. 

Owen snapped on his watch, seeing that it was almost noon. He had never slept so late and if he didn't hurry he wouldn't be able to change before visiting the hospital. Haunted by the memories of the day before, and the feeling that Katie was slipping away from him, he went down the hallway only to meet Crane coming through the lobby. 

"Owen!" 

Owen slowed reluctantly. "Nice to see you." 

"We must talk," Lee said urgently, taking his arm. 

"I have to get changed. Come with me to my apartment," Owen said firmly, freeing himself. 

Crane nodded and fell in step beside him. 

 

***

 

Bennett and Nelson watched the television news as they drank hot coffee. 

Bennett leaned back, his leather chair creaking under the added stress. "The CIA director's promised to meet with Congress about Grenada." 

"CIA?. I thought Carmondy was the only person down there," Nelson said with deceptive mildness. "Excepting Crane, and if he's taken another job--" 

Bennett dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "There isn't a CIA presence down there, per se, just a stringer who supplied the occasional report. Still, this will get Congress off our back while we pull the troops together." 

Nelson frowned. "Charlie, there still may be no immediate need to send the troops in, and I hope you've made that clear to the President." 

"I keep him fuIly informed, Harry. He thinks it's a real threat." 

"Because of what?" 

"It's being discussed on the floor of the Senate." 

"Grenada?" Nelson looked incredulous. 

"Just because they can't find it on a map, or have no idea of what it's strategic importance is, is no reason that it can't be talked about in endless, interminable detail," Bennett said sarcastically. "I think the Capitol dome was made in that shape so that it could float away someday like a giant balloon from all the hot air." 

"You really dislike Congress, don't you, Charlie?" the Admira1 said dryly, taking up his coffee cup 

"I give respect to the institution, but only a little to the peop1e," Bennett admitted. "They, and the press, are the most irritating thing about this city." 

"Don't like the press either?" 

"Not a bit." 

There was a knock on the door and his secretary, Janis, came in with several faxes, followed by one of the White House waiters. Bennett casually tossed his copy of the Washington Post over the papers lying on the table. 

She handed over the faxes and retreated as the waiter cleared away breakfast and wheeled his cans outside. 

"He's probably been cleared," Bennett commented after the door closed, "but I don't trust anybody." 

"The leakiest ship is the Ship of State," Nelson agreed. 

"It's only getting worse as well. Well, well, look at this?" Bennett held up a sheet. 

"What is it?." 

"The State Department is sending a formal note to the Grenadian government asking about the students. They're asking for 'safety assurances' for the Americans." Bennett's gaze met Nelson's. "I told you this was big." 

"That's going to be part of your explanation to Congress?" 

"We're worried about the students. So, what are your plans for the day, Nelson?" 

"I have to go out to Annapolis and see some old friends. I'm spending the night there, then coming back to meet with Florentine at the Pentagon tomorrow at noon. I've left the number with your secretary if you have to find me," the Admiral said reluctantly. 

"Enjoy your trip, Harry. I'll see you tomorrow." 

 

*** 

 

Crane followed the rumpled man up to the apartment that he had rented. Owen fumbled with the lock, then turned the key and let them both inside. 

The blinds were shuttered tightly, leaving the room in an eerie darkness. Crane stopped to let his eyes adjust for a second. 

"Get a drink if you want one, Lee," Owen called, disappearing into the bedroom. 

"Hair of your dog, Reg?" 

"A bulldog, no doubt," came the reply. "I'm getting some clothes. Lee, I've got a couple of clean shirts in the front closet. Can you get them for me?" 

Crane got a glass of water and went into the living room. As he expected with Owen, the apartment was clean and tidy. 

He pulled open the closet and found two shirts, still encased in dry-cleaning plastic, as well as several jackets and an unexpected bulky vest. 

The flak jacket was heavily padded and would fit snugly over fighting garb, but the front and back were shredded as if bullets had gone through the multiple thicknesses. The fabric was stained black on the inside. 

“He’s lucky to be alive. He must have nearly bled to death, Crane thought. He took out the shirts and closed the door on the vest. He hung the shirts on the edge of one doorway and turned his attention to the rest of the room. 

Books were strewn on the small desk located by the floor-to-ceiling windows that bordered on a small veranda overlooking a garden below. Crane opened the windows, letting the fresh island breeze in to stir the filmy curtains. 

He sat down and began surveying the books lining the table. Two books on the island, a galley proof for a military book on the Falklands, with the inscriptions -- Owen, check this, will you? You’re the only one who knows the truth! -- a couple of medical tomes written in daunting technical terms, and a well-thumbed book of poetry.

Curiously, Crane opened the latter. A sprawling, loopy inscription in the beginning showed it wasn't Owen's book.

"That's Katie's," Owen said unexpectedly from the doorway. 

Crane had been so absorbed in the book that he hadn't heard the soft-walking soldier come in. "It looks well-used." 

Owen blushed unexpectedly. "She used to send me notes. I got razzed for that." 

Crane expected so. The hard-boiled soldier getting messages from a lovely girl in occupied territory? It sounded like a bad novel. He put the book down. "Is this her?" he waved to the photograph. 

Owen nodded and picked up the framed photograph. "It was taken on our wedding day." 

What struck Crane forcibly when Owen handed it over was that the only happy people in the picture were Owen and Katie; the priest, her brothers, and the four military officers standing carefully on Owen's side of the stairs, all wore fixed smiles as if they weren't happy this was happening. 

"About last night--" Crane started.

Owen pointed out the highly-decorated officer standing just behind his right shoulder, “That's Welch." 

The rigid set of the mouth and the narrowed eyes showed a suspicious man, unhappy with what was going on. In contrast, the other three soldiers, probably Owen's troop, looked uneasy but at peace. 

"Last night you said Katie thought he had tipped off your shooters," Crane stated as he put the picture down on the table. "What do you think now?. " 

Owen ran his hand back through his hair. He was only wearing shoes and sandals. "She thought so. I don't...I don't know. I don't believe it." 

Crane knew that Owen not only believed it, but knew it could have happened. The situation in Northern Ireland was complicated beyond all measure, with odd alliances made and dissolving as soon as a hangover passed or a deed was done. 

"What are you going to do about it?" 

Owen took the shin. "Not a thing, Lee. I won't be seeing Welch again 'til I go back." 

"If he betrayed you," Crane said indelicately, "then you need to tell someone." 

"Tell someone that my wife on her deathbed intimated that my commanding officer set me up with our enemies? There are a lot more believable explanations than mine," Owen said stolidly. 

"But you can't go back and work for him!" 

"If I'm assigned--" 

"Don't be a fool. Someday you'll ask him, he'll screw you over, and you'll be out without a pension or your good conduct," Crane said bluntly. "Someone needs to know." 

"The only person who knows the truth is Welch. What are your plans today, Lee?. " Owen abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. 

"It's almost noon. I thought I'd go down to True Blue and see if there is anything going on," Crane said. "Want to come along?" 

"I have to go to the hospita1," Owen said dourly, his expression becoming shuttered 

"I can go with you part of the way." 

"Thanks, Lee, but that's not necessary. Have a good trip." 

 

*** 

 

In his cabin, Morton handed the last report on the ecosystem of the Caribbean basin to the waiting radioman to transmit, and felt a vast sense of relief. The preliminary data bore out the Admira1's suspicions that the increase in cruise ships and tourist boats was becoming a danger to the oceans, and that meant soon, he and Seaview would be headed back to the familiar waters of the Pacific, either through the Panama Canal or down the coast of South America and around the Horn. 

They might even get to visit the Falklands again. 

That brought Owen to mind. What was the Major up to, and what was Lee up to? Sparks had handed off the radio that night and almost danced his way out of the bridge, overloaded by too much Caribbean music. He had flatly refused to do it again, so the replacement radio officer was sitting in his seat. 

Morton hadn't heard anything from anyone for days. He was building up head of frustration that he would not to take out on the crew, but it leaked out time he looked at the Admiral's reports on the number of sponges and other fish that they were tallying for the final  
report. 

"When I get back to Santa Barbara, no more fish. I'm having steak," he muttered under his breath. "Lots and lots of steak." 

He picked up the phone on his desk. "Patterson, any word from the Admiral?" 

"No, sir." 

"Captain Crane?" 

"No, sir." 

"Thanks." He put it down harder than he planned. Damn it all.


	8. Wednesday, October 19, 1983

Owen walked up the narrow streets to the hospital smelling the scent of danger in the air. It was as familiar as the frangipane in Katie's bottle of scent. He thought gloomily that this was might be the last time he did this walk. What would he do if-- when she died? He paused at the unsavory thought. What wou1d he do? 

Around him, people swirled in groups, talking volubly about the recent changes in the government, changes that most didn't approve of, judging from the loud tones and vehement gestures. 

The native students had been protesting for the last couple of days. A large group of them blocked his way as he walked and he stepped aside to let more pass before continuing up the street. 

He would have to figure out some way to take Katy back to Ireland, that was clear. Her family there would insist on it. They would probably hold the trip against him, and complain that she should have died in the bosom of her family. He had asked Katie if she wanted to go back to Ireland, back when she could still think, and his wife had refused. She'd wanted to die in peace and with him, not with the tension of the family problems. 

He began walking again. As he got closer to the hospital, and the road that lead beyond it to the prison, the people were packed more tightly, some dancing and others calling slogans that ranged from "Down with Communism" to "We want Bishop back!" 

Owen stopped by one of the doorways to judge whether he was going to make it up to the hospital with his bouquet of flowers. All his training said get out of there unless you were going to do something. The police were patrolling quietly through the crowds stifling the dissent with their very presence. It was ten-thirty am. 

He'd have to get a coffin and have her sent out aboard one of those planes out of Pearls. He'd have to get the death certificate and so much paperwork...Well, Anslem would help him there. Embalming? That was Egyptian, right? Owen didn't know much about how civilians dealt with death. 

Owen stepped out again, forging through the crowd with a smile and a nod whenever somebody looked hostilely at him. Most of the crowd let him by, some calling him by name. He had been on the island long enough that he was becoming an expatriate. 

As he climbed up hill, he saw children, then adults, climbing with him. He stepped out of their way as they drifted up the hill towards the mansion, their numbers growing. 

From the corner of his eye he saw a familiar face in with the crowd. Crane was drifting with the crowd, his attention on the soldiers who were restively watching the people. 

Owen debated momentarily, then fell in with the mass of people, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible. 

The crowd was pressed between the bamboo on the right and the chain link fence on the left that kept people from falling over a cliff that overlooked the city. 

A sentry booth blocked the way, with two armored cars nearby. A third car was behind them in the drive of the gabled residence. 

Owen saw Crane stumble, then catch himself on the chain link fence as the crowds swayed forward. He estimated there was no way to get through the crowd to the other man. 

Over the heads of the crowd, he heard a man calling out something about Bishop, and a chorus of catcalls and booing came out of the crowd. The man spoke again, then stopped. 

There was a low hum of anticipation as the chimes of the city's churches sounded eleven a.m. 

Breaking into the bell's din came the sound of machine-gun fire as it opened up over the crowd. 

The people wailed and broke, hundreds sweeping over and under the metal fence, down the cliff. As Owen watched in horror, Crane disappeared under a mountain of people. 

He dumped his blossoms beside the road and fought his way across the road to where he'd seen the other man. "Crane!" 

Looking down the steep slope, he saw scrambling figures, then a man lying flat on the ground, his hands protecting his head. Muddy feet had trampled over his body, judging from the prints on the white shirt. 

Owen carefully scrambled down the slope. "Crane? Lee!" 

Crane looked up, his face white. "Reg? I think I twisted my knee." 

"Hold on. I'll get some rope or something. We'll get you up to the hospital." 

He missed Crane's face going red. 

Owen scrambled up the hill as some of the crowd, a group of students, swept around the armored car, and into the building at the back entrance. He was dragged along with the rest of the crowd as they broke in the tall windows and up the wood staircase to the upper floor. Finally, he wrenched himself free of the crowd and looked around for some rope or something that could help. 

There were shouts from down the hallway, as the protestors found the deposed Prime Minister and brought him out into the hallway. 

Owen was appalled. The man looked like a broken puppet, his eyes sunken in his skull and wearing only a pair of green shorts. His now-freed girlfriend followed in better condition and Owen heard a shout from the rapidly growing crowd outside as they went out on the veranda. 

Following, he saw them get pushed into a car, then Bishop changed his mind and started for another car, obviously dazed and confused. Finally, they retreated to the first car, and it started to creep down the steep hill, pressed on all sides by the singing crowd that was tossing flowers at them. 

Owen dismissed the crowds, looked around the wreckage for a rope. He yanked down the long curtain pulls that were attached to the two-story windows, shrouding himself in the falling curtains. 

By the time he'd freed himself from the cloth, the crowd was rapidly disappearing.

He ran down the wooden stairs, two at a time, and out the wrecked doors until he reached when he had left Crane. 

Crane still lying there, probably unconscious or close to it, two men bending over him, searching his pockets. "Hey! What're you doing?" Owen roared. 

The thieves took one look at the brawny man with the rope over his shoulder and took off down the hill, sliding in their haste to get away. 

Owen looped one end of the rope around the metal stanchion that formed one of the supports for the chain fence, then slid carefully down the broken-bamboo-covered hill. 

Crane was barely conscious when Owen rolled him over. "Easy, Captain," Owen said, looping the rope around his bruised body. "This might not be the best way to move you, but if l leave you here, you may end up with a slit throat." 

Crane opened his eyes. "I...can climb. Up." 

"I'll get up there, and pull," Owen ordered. "You do what you can." 

He clambered the hill, then carefully began pulling on the rope. 

Crane tried to help, but gave up halfway, his body feeling the pain of a thousand trampling feet on his back and legs. 

Owen let out a sigh of relief when the tall man was finally on the tarmac roadway beside him. "That was a bit of fun." 

Crane looked up with a bleary smile. "You're all muscle, Reg." 

"Didn't expect a riot today," Owen acknowledged cheerfully. "Let's see if we can get a car for you." He wa1ked over to one of the abandoned armored cars and peered inside. The soldiers had followed the crowd into town and left the remains of their breakfast on the seat. 

Owen threw an orange at a nearby chattering monkey, then slid into the seat, fumbling beneath the dash. A few murmured curses, and tugging, and he managed to wire the ignition so that it turned over. He drove the car out to the road and paused in front of Crane. "Care for a ride?" 

"Here?" Crane carefully stumbled around the front end of the car, and opened the door. He fell inside on the hot leather, and pulled the door shut, narrowly missing his foot. 

"The hospital. They'll give you something for the pain," Owen said setting the clutch in first.

"Hospital...down at Grand Anse?" Crane wheezed. 

"No, the one next to Fort Frederick. It's an asylum, but they have good doctors." 

Crane had a sinking feeling which added to his nausea. Back to the asylum... He let his head sink down on his hands. "I feel terrible." 

 

***

 

Carmondy looked up from the dish of tuna covered with creole sauce that had just been served to him as the sound of the roaring crowds coming down the road rolled over the cafe. The waiter took one look at the singing people and fled inside, leaving the bewildered patrons and remaining tourists to take their chances. 

Carmondy gobbled down one hunk of the delicious fish, then wiped his lips, grabbed his camera and headed into the crowd. The current swept him along up towards Fort Rupert on head of the promontory that made the clasping claw of the harbor . The government offices sat on the top of the steep cliffs. 

Carmondy pressed along till he stood in the courtyard of Fort Rupert where soldiers standing on the veranda of the operations room were handing out weapons to the crowd. 

"My God. He's free, 'Bishop's free!" Carmondy breathed as he squirmed himself through the crowds towards the building.

He felt a hand on his back pocket, reaching for his wallet, then another grab at the expensive watch on his wrist and he hit out, not seeing who he hit. Finally he reached a clear space to one side of the building and checked, finding the wallet gone, but the watch was securely fastened. It read nearly one pm

The restive crowd swayed back and forth, singing as they waited for Bishop to come out. 

Carmondy saw some of the crowd had spilled onto the grounds of the General Hospital nearby. Suddenly three armored cars shot into the courtyard, filled with soldiers who started firing into the crowd.

The people wailed as, for the second time that day for most, they scrambled for their lives. 

Carmondy realized he was going to be run over and threw himself into the embrace of the bushes next to the building, feeling the leaves and branches scoring his sun-burned skin and prick1ing through his pants and shirt. A bullet tinged past his ear and he cringed further, trying to make himself smaller. After a second, the firing stopped and the soldiers stepped out of the cars. The firing started again, accompanied by a boom from outside the courtyard that sounded like a bomb. 

The guns stopped for a second time when someone called from inside the building that they surrendered.

Carmondy watched as the senior- officials were split into two groups. Bishop, and the others were herded back into Fort Rupert while the others disappeared, under guard, down Church Street. 

Carmondy pulled himself from the loving embrace of the bush and staggered forward, trying to appear more badly wounded than he was. He could see soldiers staring at him, but he reached the middle of courtyard where he could see inside the walls of the Fort to where the basketball courts were. He hesitated for a second, brushing at his blood-stained garments, then obeyed the jerk of a machine gun that told him to get out. 

Looking back for a second, through the door, he saw Bishop and the others lined up against the wall jerk and fall as a hail of machine gun bullets killed them. 

The revolution was still in place. 

 

***

 

Nelson stretched his arms as he left the Pentagon. The air was blustery cold with puffy clouds that forecast a storm in the near future. The heavier winter uniform felt good. The contingency plans for getting the American students out of Grenada were finally finished and on their way to the president. 

"Admiral Nelson! Admiral!" A secretary called to him from an open doorway and beckoned frantically. 

He half-ran back to the building ignoring the glances the civilian workers bustling by gave him "What is it?" 

“The Chairman wants to see you!" 

They hurried through the bustling corridors, past security men who saluted when they saw the four stars on Nelson's collar, and up to the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. 

Mark Florentine, the Chairman, was musing over a sheet of paper in his hands, and looked up when the Admiral came in. The secretary closed the door behind him. 

Nelson saluted. "What is it, Sir?" 

"I have a telegram here from Ambassador Bish in Barbados. He seems overwrought," Florentine commented holding it out. 

The Admiral read it and nodded agreement. "He does seem upset." 

"I'll be taking this to the White House. We may have to move up the plans...if we are going to do anything about Grenada." Florentine danced around the intimation that there was an invasion in the air. 

Nelson understood the politics. "What do you want from me, Sir? " 

"Your friend, Senator Dawber, is still in the hospital, correct?" 

"Pete? Yes, sir. Not well--" 

"I understand that. Do you think he is any shape to help us with Congress?” Florentine asked bluntly. 

"No, sir. Well..." Nelson considered more carefully. "l doubt it." 

"When will you be seeing him?" 

"I had planned on going over there tomorrow. Before coming here." 

Florentine settled his cap firmly on his graying hair. "I suggest you see me before going over there. I'll free you up from the planning meeting if I need your help with the Senator." 

"What can a dying man do for us, sir?" 

"He was the chairman of the Armed Services Committee," Florentine grinned. "I'm sure he can whip all the current members into line if we need their support for an invasion." 

*** 

Owen saw Crane stir as one of the nurses ran a wet cloth down his wounded head. Stepping around her, he slid his arm under Crane and helped lift the man from the van, a black orderly coming around tile other side to aid him. 

They carried him to a stretcher, and laid him down. 

Owen stepped back to where a nurse, her face showing some puzzlement, was watching. The doctor began to examine Crane. 

"He was caught in the riot," Owen explained. 

"I heard the noise, Major, but -- why don't you take him down to General Hospital?" she asked, 

Owen grimaced. "The streets are jammed. I'll come back for here when it's less crowded, Mother. I'm headed in that direction right now to see if I can help, but, if what I think has happened, they will be fully booked." 

"I see," she said delicately, looking at several of the inmates who were seated on the wide veranda watching the proceedings with wide eyes. 

"He's just been trampled, not punctured," Owen commented. "I think it's mostly bruising. Just keep him in bed for a day or two, Mother. I'll be back before then--" 

"I don't know what this place is coming to!" she exclaimed unexpectedly. "Major, nothing like this ever happened before!" 

He put his hand on her sleeve reassuringly, forgetting that he looked like he’d been in battle. "It wi1l be over soon. The worst of the rioting is happening right now. This is when it's dangerous to go out. Just stay calm, Mother. It will soon be over." 

She smiled weakly, her hands clasping and unclasping. "A soldier would know, I suppose. You say you're going out, Major? Into the rioting?" 

Owen nodded. “I'm a professional soldier, Mother, and this is part of my -- my usual job." 

"Don't let them hurt you, Major Owen," she said in sudden seriousness. "Your wife will never forgive you." 

His expression went hard and bland. "I won't let them hurt me, Mother. I'll be back to see Katie later." He went down the stairs and drove the van out the gates of the asylum as they carried Crane's unconscious form into the hospital.


	9. Thursday, October 20, 1983

Carmondy saw from the undisturbed sheets that Crane hadn't come back to the hotel room the previous night. He frowned, hoping chat the man hadn't been injured or killed. Why hadn't he come back? 

The NSC man shrugged and sat down on the edge of his bed, shoving his feet into the sandals he had bought shortly after arriving. 

After a shower, he dressed and went downstairs. 

Reaching a decision, he picked up his jacket, put his passport in one pocket and a wad of cash in the other and went downstairs. 

The hotel's manager met him at the foot of the stairs. "Mr. Freeman?" 

"Yes?" Carmondy answered. 

It was ominously quiet in the lobby, and the darkened restaurant suggested that if he wanted breakfast it would have to be room service. 

"I'm afraid there has been a disturbance and that the island is under curfew," the man answered apologetically. "I will have to ask you to go back to your room, or to stay in the hotel." 

"Stay here?" Carmondy said incredulously. "Mr. Matou, I'm afraid that T have to find my friend, Mr. Crane. I'm told he is down at the Grand Anse Campus. Is there any way l can reach down there?" 

"He is at the University?" Matou said aghast. "I am so sorry, Mr. Freeman. I will see if there is a way, but please, don't leave the hotel just yet. Please. I do not want you hurt." 

Carmondy paused, then nodded. "Very well. But please make it fast. I want to see him for myself, then call his wife and children, and tell them of his condition.” 

"Of course, sir," Matou agreed. "I will have some rolls and coffee sent up to you for breakfast." 

Carmondy went back to his room and looked out the window in Crane's room. The streets were unusually empty for the morning. Clusters of soldiers stood on street corners, talking with each other, while the few people walking from place to place were being detained every few steps with identification being sought by each set of soldiers. 

Carmondy retreated inside to think. He flipped on the radio and the sound of Caribbean music filled the room. The announcer finally came on. 

"It is our great regret to tell inform you that ex-Prime Minister Bishop died leading an assault on Fort Rupert," the man said blandly. "Prime Minister Coard has asked that everyone stay at home until the situation settles down. And, now from Barbados, is Livea Conados singing..." 

So, that was the party line, eh? Time to call home. Carmondy picked up the telephone and tried to reach the United States. 

The phone buzzed and clicked, but the call never reached off the island. The operator finally came on the line to apologize. The international phone lines were down. Only local calls were going through. 

 

***

 

Nelson walked casually into the White House, his expression changing to worry as soon as he got inside. The cryptic message he'd gotten from Charlie Bennett was distressing in and of itself; something must have gone wrong, but it was unknown by the media. Nelson had spent most of the morning with the radio on, dealing with paperwork faxed from the Nelson Institute, and had lunched with Linda Gable. Neither of those sources had mentioned anything connected with the  
Caribbean. Receiving an urgent summons when he got back to the hotel was unsettling. 

He recognized most of the faces gathered around the map-strewn table to one side of Charlie's office. there were several generals from the Joint Chiefs, the President's Press Secretary, himself, and another man who Nelson realized as soon as he heard the voice was the White House chief-of-staff. The latter merely nodded to the admiral, and gathered up several sheets of paper, and said, "Bennett, keep me informed at every stage. I'll keep the President up-to-date." 

"Yes, sir," Charlie said in a respectful tone. The man walked out, a worry line between his brows. 

"What’s up?" Nelson asked, hanging his coat on the polished coat rack. 

"We just received word from the Ambassador in Barbados. Maurice Bishop has been shot along with some of his Cabinet," Bennett reported in a preoccupied tone. "The faxes are on the end, Harry." 

Nelson picked up the papers and scanned them, absorbing the news 

"Caricom has approached us--" 

"Caricom?" asked the press secretary. 

"Organization of Eastern Caribbean States. They were talking, in a vague way about the problems without Bishop, but I called the head as soon as I heard, and he was stunned. He is calling a meeting today of the members," Bennett said crisply. "I suspect that we'll have an invitation to get involved within hours." 

"Are you sending someone down there?." Nelson questioned, putting down the papers. 

"Yes, someone from State on ambassadorial level is already flying to Barbados. We're going to need their help to get the troops there in time, if we have to fly them." Bennett looked up from his papers at Nelson. "Didn't you say there was a task force steaming out?" 

"Yes, out of Norfolk. Left last night to go to Lebanon." 

"What would it take to divert it?" 

"A presidential request," Nelson said brusquely. "It's ten ships with about nineteen hundred marines, headed by a helicopter carrier, Saipan. There's another battle group with the Independence and Guam which can be diverted if you need." 

"You'd better make some plans, Harry," Bennett advised. "I know you've got the basics down, but from now on, gentlemen," and he looked around the group, "we're on total operational basis. No leak of this to the press or we're going to have whining liberals we're saying beating up on the poor natives." 

"What's our reason for going in?" the press secretary asked reasonably. "And are you planning to talk to Congress? There's where you're going to have leaks." 

"There are American medical students on that island, and they'll be under Communism shortly," Bennett; replied. "No American should have to live under that unless they want to -- and if they do, they're not American. Congress. Leave Congress to me. Every thing clear?" 

Nelson looked at the faces around him. They were set, they were determined and had a tinge of excitement. He could feel adrenalin running in his veins as well. 

A soft knock on the door made everyone jump. Janis, Bennett's secretary, deposited a battered envelope encased in a Federal Express bag on his desk. "The latest reports, sir," she said softly, then went out, closing the door behind her. 

"Thank you, gentlemen. Harry, stick around," Bennett ordered. 

The others left and Nelson sat down opposite the man who was tearing into the bag. "Ah, they've been decoded. These are the reports from your man, Crane, and Carmondy in Grenada. Here." Bennett scanned the first sheet and passed it over. 

Nelson read fast, but couldn't keep up with Bennett who piled the sheets faced down as he finished with them. "It doesn't sound that worrisome," Nelson said finally. "It's tense, but there isn't a sense of collectivism like you get in Cuba. Are you sure you need to do this, Charlie?" 

"Carmondy's seasoning nicely, don't you think?" Bennett asked. "I gave him this job partly to give him some experience. That's why I wanted Crane with him. To keep him from making mistakes." 

"It sounds to me like they don't spend much time together," Nelson commented dryly. "It's like reading two different journals," 

Bennett rustled through the blow-ups of the photos. "Not bad for a beginner, though. It confirms what the satellites gave us. That damned runway the Cubans are building is big enough for bombers." 

"A good enough reason to invade?" 

The NSC man looked at him shrewdly "Harry, we're going in to help the American students. Remember that." 

Nelson snorted. "Right. I'd better be getting to work then." 

"Hm...yes. Nelson, where's Seaview right now?" 

"Still in the Caribbean.” 

"Counting sponges?" 

The Admiral grinned. "Close enough. The last word I had was that my Exec was about to scrub with a Brillo pad. He never wanted to see another sponge in his life." 

“Have them stay alert,” Bennett ordered. “If this goes through, I want to get Carmondy out before the balloon goes up." 

"Carmondy?" 

"He's got real promise, Harry." 

"And Crane?" 

Bennett stopped for a second, then shrugged. "Crane's an experienced man who can survive virtually anything. I'd trust him to last through the invasion." 

"I'd hate to lose him so that golden-boy could come out with his curls stainless," Nelson said with suspicious mildness. 

"Have Seaview start some kind of a plan then, Harry, to get them both out." 

"I will." 

 

***

Owen clambered out of the back of the ambulance and looked around, seeing suspicious and overly-tense guards, guns held ready. The populace they guarded against milled and muttered in doorways, but the streets that the ambulances traversed were empty. The curfew was being taken seriously by most of the people. The white band with a red cross that he wore on an upper arm was little protection against bullets. 

He looked at the nurse who was stepping down the front stairs of the mental hospital, her hands held out. "Major!" she called. 

A guard whirled suspiciously, but the chief medical attendant, a Grenadian, waved and smiled. 'No problem' was the watchword today. 

"Nurse Abri, it's dangerous out here for you," Owen urged, holding out his hands. "We just stopped o drop off some food supplies-- 

"I must tell you about your friend," she said urgently. 

"Crane? What's happened?" Owen snapped. 

"He has an infection in one foot. We pulled a thorn out, but it had festered. He has a high fever which we are treating, but he shouldn't be moved." 

"t wasn't planning on it," Owen said in a distracted tone, his attention split between the nurse and the guards who were starting to stare. "Take good care of him, Nurse. What about Katie?" 

"A bad day, my son. She is...wandering." 

He nodded, his lips together tightly. "Is she dying then, Mother?. " 

The nurse hesitated, then folded her hands. "I think you have a few days." 

"This can't go on much longer," he said. "I'll be back later or tomorrow. 

"God bless you, and keep you safe," 

"You also. Keep your heads down." 

 

***

 

Carmondy finally walked out of the hotel in the afternoon and took one of the minivans that ran from St. George to Grand Anse. Reaching the lush green campus, he got off with three others, students who had been trapped in the city by the rioting, and went up to the main administration building where two days before he and Felicia had been exploring the basement. 

His mind was occupied by the state of occupation all over the island, and the overwhelming need to get his information to the outer world. In the basement was the ham radio that he had seen before his attention was diverted by Felicia's diatribe about Alice and his lack of consideration in not wearing protection when they made love. His protestations went unheard, and she'd abandoned him after a half-hour slamming the door behind her. He'd had the opportunity then to familiarize himself with the radio but the owner came in before he could reach anyone in the United States. 

He had no sooner stepped into the building than he was accosted by teachers and students, gathering around him, babbling for information and reassurance. 

He looked at the signs they were carrying under their arms. 'We Survived-So Far?' and the cameras slung over the”- shoulders. "Been taking pictures?" 

Toni grabbed one arm. "Were you up there?" 

"Up where?" he prevaricated, freeing himself. 

“On the mountain," Felicia said from the crowd. “You look all scratched up. Did you see 

He looked at the sneaks of iodine on his hands and forearms, and agreed with that. "I saw what happened." 

“Well, you’d better tell us,” said one of the teachers. "Because we're not going to let you out before you do.”


	10. Friday, October 21, 1983

Sparks silently handed the Exec two messages. Chip Morton finished reading the first, and crumpled it up. "I don't believe it." 

"Sir?" The radio man looked surprised. It was unusual for Morton to speak aloud to anyone but Crane. He was the most reserved man on board. 

"Washington's diverted the Lebanon convoy and the independence group to Grenada. They're loaded with Marines, SEALs, Rangers -- we must be planning something." 

The Exec read the second message, and tore it into little pieces, dumping them in the trash. "That's...unexpected," he murmured. 

"What, sir?" 

"Keep a good ear out for anything from Grenada, Sparks," Morton ordered. "We may have to do a rescue mission." 

"For Captain Crane, sir?" 

"For Carmondy," Morton almost spat out, then caught himself. It didn't help that Sparks looked understanding at the outburst. The crew shouldn't -- even if they did -- know how much the officers disliked Carmondy. 

"Sir, it's just about time for the news from Grenada. Here it is, in fact. I think you should hear it." Sparks held out the headphones. 

Chip slid them over his head and listened. 

The chirpy announcer was saying that all was well in St. George, that the revolution was over, but went on to accuse the United States of thinking of invasion plans. Chip's lips thinned in displeasure. Had someone talked back in Washington? The voice went on to denounce America and boost Coard. 

After a minute, Morton slid off the headphones and handed them back. "Thanks, Sparks." 

The radioman nodded and put the phones on. 

Morton moved forward through the control room to be stopped by Kowalski. "Yes, 'Ski?" 

"A ship, sir." 

"What kind?" 

Kowalski's face showed concentration as he tried isolating the sound. "It's small, maybe a fishing boat, sir. But familiar." 

"Familiar how?” Morton asked briskly. 

"I...I think it's that ship that Major Owen came off of, sir," Kowalski said with increasing surety 

"The Lambi?" 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Keep at it, Kowalski. I want to know where it's coming from and where it's going." 

"Aye, aye, Mr. Morton." 

 

***

Crane felt the cool air brush over him. He had been so hot for most of the last day that it felt like an arctic breeze, but he welcomed it. The high fever which had sent him haunted dreams of flesh-eating orchids and sinking submarines had finally broken. 

He opened his eyes and saw mosquito netting around him, swaying in the breeze. His bedclothes were soaked in sweat. His right foot, propped on a pile of pillows, was uncovered but bandaged. 

He remembered the nurses, and a doctor, fluttering around him, the extraction of something from his foot, then the increasing fever that drove him in unconsciousness. The medicine must have finally taken effect, he thought, and tried to draw up his right leg as if to get out of the bed. 

Pain streaked up his leg and stopped him before he could half bend the leg. After the first shock, he tried again, knowing it would hurt. 

Actually, knowing about the pain, he could lessen its impact and actually look at what had happened to him. 

The boil must have been lanced and re-bandaged because the heel was bloody but there were no streaks of infection radiating from it. 

He tried putting it on the cold floor and hastily drew it up. The pain was beyond standing. 

Crane sank back on the bed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. How long had it been since he'd come to the hospital? A day? Two? Four? He couldn't remember. 

“Sister?” he croaked. His voice didn’t carry to the door. He picked up a glass that sat by the bed and tried to sip on the water, but dropped the tumbler before it reached his lips. 

The sound brought one of the junior nurses to the door. “You have to lie still, Mr. Crane,” she said with a calypso lilt to her voice. “You have been very ill.”

 

Crane stared at her. "I have to use....the telephone." 

"No telephone." 

He struggled to get upright. "I have co--" 

“The telephone is not working. The government has control of the phone system and they are not letting calls be made.” She put her hands on his naked shoulders and pressed him down. “So, rest, Mr. Crane.

He went limp feeling his strength flowing out of his muscles. 

She fussed with the bedclothes and netting. “Your friend has stopped by once a day, Mr. Crane but you haven’t been well enough to see him.”

"My friend..." 

"Major Owen? He is working for the ambulance corps at the General Hospital. He says it is very crowded there now, with the shootings on the hill," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And I hear they have shot people because of the curfew." 

Crane caught her arm and smiled his most enchanting smile. "Sister, if he comes by...again, can I see him?" 

She patted his hand "It will probably be tomorrow, Mr. Crane. We will see how well you are by then. Go to sleep." 

 

*** 

 

Carmondy sat on the floor of the library and tried to think of ways out of his predicament. 

The curfew had trapped him at the school and the ham radio operators had been unsympathetic to his need to borrow the equipment. The international phone lines were still out of order. For the first time, he understood the problems agents faced in the field, and ruefully thought of the days when he was in classes where everything was cut and dried. 

In fact, it would be almost time for all the football Homecoming games, he thought wistfully. 

"Thinking of home.?" Toni asked, sitting down next to him. "You have that dreamy look." 

"It's getting cold in New England, and the Homecoming games," he replied. 

"And the tailgate parties," she agreed. "Wine, men and song. Never knew who you would go home with." 

Carmondy felt uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking. "I only dated one woman at a time." 

She smiled amused. "Well, welcome to the big world, Mr. Freeman, where there are more ladies than you can shake a stick at. “Which medical school specialty were you planning?" 

He stared her straight in the eye. "Brain surgery. Probably what I'll need if we ever get out of here." 

'”Really. By the way, Hector down in the radio room says if you want to use the transmitter, he'l1 let you. He's gotten a little tired of listening to the propaganda on Radio Grenada. He says he wants cash." 

Carmondy felt a flush. He had offered a good bribe, but he didn't want everyone to know about it. "Thank you." He clambered to his feet and disappeared down out of the room. 

Felicia leaned out of her cubicle where she'd been unobtrusively studying by the afternoon sunlight since the power supplied to the university was becoming erratic. "I think he should be an urologist. Or a vet." 

"I thought you were an animal lover?" Toni joked. 

"He's got about as much empathy for people as a block of wood." 

:'Maybe he should be a woodcarver, then." 

 

***

 

Nelson sat down at the dinner table across from Barbara Wilkens and looked around warily. 

He had spent the entire day commuting between the Pentagon and the White House, a succession of trips in closed limousines, and he was feeling slightly disoriented at the rapid change of topic as the table full of guests began discussing current environmental pollutants and ocean currents. Linda Gable had set up this dinner long before the crisis had been declared, and even Bennett acknowledged that Nelson's absence would be a tipoff to the sharp minds that something might be happening. After all, he was in town primarily about the ecosystem of Florida, not the invasion of Grenada. 

"Have you been to the hospital?" Barbara said to him twice before he turned to her with a start. "What is it, Admiral?" 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Your attention isn't really here. Has something happened...to Pete?. " 

He gave himself a mental shake. Not the time to lose control. "I saw Pete late last night. He looked healthier than he's looked in months. I'd say getting out of the Senate will give him a second life." 

"A far cry from the man who you saw when you first arrived," Linda called from across the table where she was seated next to John Nill. "He's almost the old Dawber." 

"Then he'll be resigning?" Wilkens pounced. "They'll be calling a special election in that case. 

Linda's face fell. "I'm afraid his doctors insist that he resign. Pete feels he'd rather die in office, but I told him he missed his chance doing that. Now, he'll just have to be a senior statesman and write his memoirs." 

"If he tells the truth about his years in Congress, we'll have the biggest turnover in the House since Truman," Barbara snickered. 

"I'm sure he’ll be the soul of discretion," Nelson said with an amused tone. 

"How is your work in Florida doing, Admiral?" a man asked from beyond Linda. She'd introduced him as Maurice Potts, another lobbyist, but from the other side, the oil and gas lobbies. 

"Found a few fresh fish?" 

Nelson felt a surge of dislike, and eyed him with malice aforethought. “let me tell you what our latest reports say.” He started to discuss Seaview’s latest report in detail, most of his mind on the impending invasion.


	11. Saturday, October 22, 1983

Nelson came into Charlie Bennett's office, smoothing down red hair that had been ruffled by the wind keening around the White House. 

"Nelson, look at this," Bennett ordered before he could greet them. 

The Admiral took the faxed sheets. They were copies of the Barbados Nation's evening edition of the previous day, There were several stories on the principals in the Grenadian problem -- Sir Paul Scoon, the Governor General, Coard and others. 

The most interesting story was on the top of the front page. The newspaper must have had some connections in Grenada capable of getting information out, as well as been monitoring Radio Grenada, because the story was a mish-mash of news, rumors and contradictions. 

"Carmondy sent out a report over the ham radio," Bennett said abruptly. 

"A report? A coded report on an open frequency?" Nelson asked incredulously. 

"No, the boy's not quite that stupid. He's trapped down at the campus with some of the students. But he confirms most of what's in the Nation, as well as adding some color. He says there's a curfew on. Nobody's moving around except the Cubans. He can hear the construction still going on down at Port Salinas." 

"Must have good ears to hear it from St. George!" 

"He's at the Grand Anse campus," Bennett added 

Nelson looked up from the sheets he was perusing. "Anything from Crane?" 

"No." Bennett's glance was sympathetic. "Carmondy just talked about himself. Nelson, I had a meeting with the Secretary of State earlier. He says there's...ah, how did he put it? An atmosphere of violent uncertainty in Grenada. It looks like it's building into a head of steam. We've got a request for direct help from the Caribbean nations under Article Eight of the OEC treaty. This is probably going to happen in the next three days. I'm sending in your submarine to get Carmondy out." 

“What?" 

Bennett settled back, waving Nelson down. "I want Carmondy out because if the press or the Grenadians find out that the NSC had a man in there before the invasion, we could end up with massive egg on our face. Remember, we're going in as savers of democracy, not as ugly Americans." 

"So, how am I supposed to do this?." Nelson asked. "It's more a CIA sort of thing." 

“Seaview and her crew," Bennett said. "You know the crew; is there anyone there you'd trust to do this?" 

Nelson thought for a second. "Of course. My Exec." 

"Good. Do it. Have your men go in, get him, and get out before the invasion.” Bennett's eyes glittered for a second. "And, that way you get your captain out as well." 

Nelson raised his head sharply. "Crane's with him?" 

"I don't know. If we get Carmondy out, maybe we'll find out about Crane." 

 

***

 

Lee Crane was sitting in one of the swings on the veranda with his bandaged foot propped up on a chair. For all the activity beyond the gates, the hospital was quiet, with only the rustling skirts of the nurses breaking the soft sound of the winds blowing through the curtains. 

His foot throbbed every time he shifted, but at least his head was clear. The fever had come and gone several times, but the antibiotics had finally attacked the infection. The wound was on its way to healing. The doctor who had come early that morning had grunted approvingly, then left orders with the nurses. 

The wind tugged at Lee's white hospital top. It hadn't taken much convincing, just a promise, to get the nurses to let him come downstairs and take the air, The promise that he wasn't to try and leave the hospital had been grudgingly given; he didn't realize how weak he was and how much his foot hurt until he tried stepping on it. Crane was no fool -- from his doctor he knew there was trouble in the city. The soldiers were out for blood, and being unable to outrun them would do him no good. There was activity at nearby Richmond Hill Prison which he watched avidly, ignoring the occasional guard who wandered up from the front gates for a drink of water. 

The ambulance that drove up to the front doors was unexpected, as was the brawny figure of the man who clambered out of the front seat. 

"Major Owen?" Crane called, leaning forward and wincing as his foot twitched. 

Owen turned and waved, then went to the back of the ambulance and opened the door. The white circle and red cross on his arm band stated his status perfectly as a Red Cross driver. 

Crane watched him and his partner, a young blond woman, unload several boxes of medical supplies, and carry them inside. So, that was the way the hospital was keeping up on the drugs, 

Crane realized. He vaguely remembered Owen saying that the hospital was full or would be full, and why he was bringing him here, after the riot. 

Owen came out the double doors and walked over, rubbing his hands together absently The blond woman walked down to the truck and began doing something in the back. ' 

"How goes it, Major?" Lee asked. 

"Badly," Owen replied. "She's getting worse." 

Crane stared, then went red. "I'm sorry." 

"Oh, you mean in the city?" Owen said with a short laugh. "Same. There's a curfew and we're about all that's running around except for rumors. There's been casualties among the populace but not wholesale slaughter. " 

"Carmondy?" 

"The pup? Haven't seen him. Maybe out at True Blue. The tourists are stranded all over the city There's a twenty-four hour shoot-on-sight curfew out there. Only medical and emergency police getting around." 

"He's not dead, though?” questioned Crane. 

"I'd know that. He hasn't been through the hospital in St. George." 

Crane settled back with a sigh and a wince. 

Owen glanced at the bandaged foot. "Still bad?" 

"I'll be limping for a month or so. Depends on how it heals," Crane said 

'”You're lucky to be alive. That riot ran over many people." 

"Can you get word out, Major?" Crane asked, his voice dropping. 

Owen hesitated. "Not for the most part, though if you were dead, the Red Cross would--" 

"There's something happening up the hill with the prison and the Cubans," Crane interrupted. "I've seen trucks going in and out." 

"Oh, that. Coard’s mobilizing his people. Anslem told me that he's seen Cuban soldiers, but I can't confirm it," Owen said comfortably. 

"Anslem?" 

"The Harbor Master. He's keeping his head down right now. Doesn't want it lopped off." 

Crane looked skeptical. "He's pro--" 

"He's pro-Grenada. Not fond of the Cubans." Owen shook his head in disgust. "This was such a pretty little island, so quiet. A couple of US Government officials just landed from Bridgetown, Lee. The telex and telephone lines are shot. 

"Can you get a message out through them?" 

"Can't get near them," Owen replied. "Coard's men keep them apart." 

The blonde woman came out and beckoned to Owen, who acknowledged with a wave. 

"Your girlfriend's calling." 

"She's been married for ten years to a Grenadian doctor," Owen said dryly. "Another expatriate. Lee, would you do something for me,." 

Crane felt a chill run down his spine. Something in Owen's voice had changed to total seriousness. "What?" 

“Keep an eye on Katie?" 

"What?" Crane prevaricated quickly. 

"She's fading fast, and I'm not sure I can get back here in time," Owen said with deadly calm. "She keeps talking about a priest but I can't find him, a Father Heron. I...the nurses think she'll go soon. I may not be able to be here with all this," he waved, "going on. Will you be there for me?." 

Crane's face flamed with embarrassment. Owen still had no idea of who Father Heron was, but Lee knew very well who the pseudo-priest was, and this was digging himself deeper into the pit. 

"I...certainly, Reg. I'll be there..." 

"Good." Owen gave a crooked smile. "Because I told the nurses you would be. Oh,.." he looked out over the bay for a second, then took a deep breath. "When you meet her, don't be surprised if...she looks pregnant. She's not. It's the disease. Be seeing you tomorrow maybe, Lee." 

He descended the wooden stairs before Crane could catch his breath or respond, and clambered into the ambulance. It started with a roar and rolled smoothly down the gravel path to the gates of the asylum. 

Crane sank back feeling like a heel...and like he had just had a huge burden placed on his back. Now, he was responsible for Katie Owen. 

 

***

 

"A message, Mr. Morton," Sparks said, coming up behind him. He held out the folded piece of paper and retreated to beside the conning tower, knowing that Chip was not going to be pleased with what he read. 

Morton looked down at the sheet and compressed his lips, a gesture more meaningful to the crew than if he swore. The Exec's temper had been on a thinner and thinner leash, but it looked as if this was the last straw. 

"Kowalski!" 

The radar man swiveled on his seat so fast he was in danger of falling off. "Sir?. " 

"Is the Lambi still around?" 

Seaview had been lackadaisically following the small fishing boat as it plowed through the choppy waters. Supposedly it was looking for fish but they suspected the pirates were just looking for other prey. 

"Not far away, sir. It's idling again." 

"Good." Morton crumpled up the slip and tossed it into the trash. "Kowalski, you and I are going to do a little bit of swimming. Get O'Brien up here. We're going to be doing a little policing."

"Sir?" Sharkey asked. 

"Chief Sharkey, get a boarding party ready. We're going to retake the Lambi and sail her to Grenada." 

"And pick up Captain Crane, sir?" Kowalski said eagerly, handing the headphones to the man next to him. 

Morton hesitated. "No, our orders are to get Carmondy out. Our official orders." 

"Ah, yeah, officially," Sharkey said in a knowing tone. "When are we going to take the Lambi, Sir?" 

"Right now, Chief. They're expecting us in Grenada topminnow."


	12. Sunday, October 23, 1983

Nelson groggily picked up his ringing telephone. "What?" he said foggily. He saw the clock said one am. 

"Harry, we need you at the White House," Charlie Bennett said, his voice raw with emotion. 

Adrenalin flooded Nelson's veins. "Charlie?" 

"They've bombed our barracks in Lebanon, Harry. We've got hundreds of casualties. The French got hit too. Get here as soon as possible. 

"My God. Oh, my God." 

 

*** 

 

"Another day in Paradise," Owen murmured as he sweated in the hot sun. 

He’d talked his partner into making a quick stop by his apartment before they reached the hospital, and an accordingly felt far more human than he had in several days with clean clothes, and a dip into his emergency funds. He’d also put on the bulletproof vest that hadn’t been particularly useful in Belfast when he’d been shot, but might be helpful now. It bulked out his khaki jacket. 

The sunlight glinted off his wedding ring as he contentedly looked around. He leaned on the back of the ambulance, and half-closed his eyes, drawing in the smell of the flowers that surrounded him. 

A small crowd of people, coming doggedly up the narrow street towards the church made him sit up. 

It caught the attention of the troopers as well, and several moved to stop the crowd. The rising noise alerted Owen to potential trouble. 

Beside him, the door of the church opened and a priest came out, the sun shining dazzlingly off his vestments, A soldier ran up and barred the priest's way, holding up his gun menacingly. 

Owen remained calm, his instincts telling him that sudden movements might get himself killed. The soldiers were wound up enough as it was, and would probably shoot anything that might moved unexpectedly. 

The crowd surged, but several other soldiers reinforced the initial line, and finally the crowd began to fade back, except for one exceedingly noisy trio which began to sing. 

The troops moved in to isolate the troublemakers, and the crowd ran around them, flooding the street with bodies, all singing or chanting as they ran towards the church. 

Owen stood up. 

The soldier guarding the priest said something and shook his gun. The priest held up his hand, slowing the crowd but not stopping them. 

The soldier raised his gun into position to start firing and Owen, despite himself, took a step forward, estimating he could probably knock the man over if he didn't get killed first. 

The priest put his hand on the man's shoulder, then stepped forward, putting the soldier and the priest on the same 1evel. He held up his hand and called to the crowd. 

The people slowed, then stopped, to listen. 

From their expressions, the priest had told them to go home or disperse, not to come to church that day for their own sakes. Various people tried to remonstrate, but the majority moved away. 

In their wake were several bodies on the cobblestone street. Owen tossed away his cigarette butt, mentally resolving it was his last, and walked out towards the bodies. 

Several soldiers raised their guns and Owen pointed to the Red Cross on his armband. They exchanged glances, then let him move on to the groaning bodies. 

One man had a bruised shoulder and arm, and would heal easily, Owen surmised. The woman was having quiet hysterics and Owen waved for a soldier to let a boy through the line of soldiers, to take her away. The family resemblance was unmistakable. 

The last man kept his face huddled until Owen's shadow fell on him. He looked up. 

Owen's expression didn't change, but he knelt down shielding the face from most of the shoulders. "Anslem?" 

"Talk to you!" Anslem whispered. 

"You're pretty bad,” Owen said in a normal tone. "Let's get you to the hospital." He hoisted Anslem on his shoulder and half-dragged the fragile Grenadian over to the ambulance. The soldiers stared at them suspiciously, but let them pass. 

Inside, Owen let Anslem sink to the rusty metal floor of the van. "What is it?" 

"The freighter in the harbor, the Viet Nam Heroico, it's leaving tomorrow. It was given orders...from Cuba to leave. The government won't get...help from there." 

"It's a Cuban vessel." 

“Yes.” 

"If the Cubans won't help Coard," Owen mused, "then he's in real trouble." 

"But, Major, why is the boat leaving now? Does it know something we don't? Do you know something?" 

"Haven't an idea, Anslem. I'd better get you patched up, though. If you hear anything, you know where to find me." 

"Up at the General Hospital." 

 

***

 

Morton swore mentally as he avoided a fishing net. Ten feet to the left, two of the divers worked at finding a third man. The taking of the Lambi was turning out to be more of a problem than anticipated. First, they had to wait several hours till the fishing boat was once again idling rather than heading on a course. Then they'd misjudged the distance between her and Seaview and it had taken a good half-hour for Chip and his team, burdened with guns, to swim up behind the boat as it idled, Now the mew on the Lambi' had decided to do some fishing right on top of the dive team. Finally, they were ready. 

He pressed the radio button in his face mask and told O'Brien to surface Seaview which would certainly catch the Lambi’s attention if nothing else. 

The water rushed around him, and the nets swirled as the submarine displaced the water. 

Moron took a good hold of the closest net and hoisted himself upward, kicking off his fins as he scrabbled for a good hold on the barnacle-encrusted hull of the fishing boat. 

Getting his head above water, he heard the boom of Sharkey's voice coming over the water as the Chief harangued the pirates. Cautiously he sneaked a look over the railing. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kowalski's slick head rise above the other. 

Bingo! The plan had worked. The pirates were clustered at the front of the boat, chattering and pointing as Seaview rolled magnificently in white foam and ripples of cobalt water. 

Morton hoisted himself over the railing, pushed back his dive hood and unhitched the gun from his back. He cautiously padded forward, quietly climbing into the pilot's house where he found the captain hastily reversing the engines. "Sorry," Chip said with a grin at the swarthy man. "You're not going anywhere." 

A burst of gunfire on the deck made both stop. Looking out, they could see all the sailors huddled in the prow, with Kowalski and another of Seaview’s crew standing guard. The captain put his hands above his head reluctantly. 

“just a warning shot,” Morton said with casual assurance. “Now, let's go down and join them.” He set the engines to neutral before they left.

On the deck, Kowalski waved at Sharkey, and the chief sent over two rafts full of sailors to take care of the pirates. 

An hour and a half later, the seaman turned to Morton, a wide infectious grin on his sun- burning face. "The Lambi's all yours, sir! Now, you've got two ships, Mr. Morton!” 

Chip looked at the fading, flaking paint on the railings and shook his head. "Not in this man's navy. Did Sharkey leave our bags?" 

"Aye, sir. I took them to the cabins." Kowalski wrinkled his nose "I opened a couple of portholes as well, Sir." 

"Forgot what sea air smells like, Kowalski? " 

"No, sir. Dirty laundry." 

Morton laughed in spite of himself. "Patterson aboard?. " 

"Yes, sir. He brought the maps of Grenada." 

"Then let's get this boat underway. Grenada's still a ways away “ 

"Aye, aye, sir!" 

 

***

 

The admiral could feel his shirt sticking as he came out of the hot sunshine into the shelter of the White House. Sumer was revisiting Washington with a vengeance, and even with the air-conditioning, the office was stifling. 

Bennett looked up from the file he was reading. "Harry, I just heard from Caricom that they've suspended trade and cut the air and sea links with Grenada. We're discussing invasion with them, bur Guyana, Trinidad and the Bahamas are still against it." 

"That's normal." 

"I want to know why the Grenadians are convinced we're going to invade," Bennett said with a frown. "They're spending a lot of time assuring the US that the students are safe and can leave but they've closed Pearls airport. Who leaked the plans?" 

"Not from our end," Nelson said positively. "Not us." 

Bennett shrugged. "I've got something else which I need you to explain." 

Despite all the years since school, Nelson instantly felt like he'd been called in front of the principal. The feeling flashed through him and away as he came forward and took the piece of paper Bennett handed him. 

It was a message in three different hands. Nelson frowned. "Where did this come from?" 

"It came from our friends at the British Embassy which is the first thing you have to explain," Bennett said curtly. "It was transmitted to their embassy in Barbados." 

Nelson began reading. "'Dear Jamie, wish you were here, We could use the extra hands. Katie and Lee are together, but Adam's somewhere where I can't reach him if she needs his presence. People are rather tense here at the moment, but I'm helping out in your line of work. For Katie, it's touch-and-go; the next two days will tell. If you come by boat, you might be in time. Hope to see you and your partner soon -- Reg.' It's addressed to William Jamieson, MMR, Santa  
Barbara...ah. I understand." 

"The Brits want to know why 'Reg' was sending a message to an American naval officer using a confidential line. Who is this Reginald Owen, Nelson?" 

"Major Owen is a Royal Marine. I don't know why he's in Grenada--" 

"That I can tell you," interrupted Bennett. "His former commanding officer, a Welch, says Owen retired and took his wife, Kathleen, the 'Katie' of the message, to Grenada, where she's dying of infectious hepatitis. Owen's also the man who helped Crane and Carmondy land in Grenada, so he's hardly a disinterested party at this point," Bennett said dryly. "What else do you read in that note?" 

"Well! Crane and Owen’s wife are together, wherever that is. Carmondy's somewhere else--" 

"We know he's with the kids at Grand Anse, but this Owen doesn't," Bennett interrupted. 

"'In your line of work...' Jamieson's my doctor?" 

"So, is 'Reg' a doctor?" 

Nelson chuckled. "Only as much as a special forces man can be. I don't know what the Brits teach them." 

" In the next two days'..." Bennett said. "Think that he's trying to warn us?" 

"Oh, yes. This is very much Owen's style. He can't get involved, though, any more than he already is." 

"No, as a British citizen he can't get involved in an American invasion. Lieutenant Colonel Welch was down on Owen, Harry. Didn't approve of his being involved, being there, the whole nine yards," Bennett commented. 

Nelson frowned. "I wonder why. He's a damn good officer." 

Janis came in and handed Bennett a note, flashing a smile at the admiral, then left. 

Bennett whistled. "Well, guess what. ^ The Caribbean states have just sent over a formal request for help. Now we've got an invitation." 

 

*** 

 

Carmondy leaned back and shut his eyes. Around him, within the compound that was tile hospital school, he heard the rustling as the students opened books, wrote papers, and talked. Troopers had penned them inside the area with food being supplied from the city, but no transportation, or more importantly, telephone service. 

So, after a day of impotently listening to Radio Grenada for information, Carmondy had decided to relax and concentrate on a way out of the problem facing him; how to escape the island before the balloon went up. 

He wondered what Crane would do. He was the experienced professional, after all. Then, he wondered where Crane was. If the man was dead, then Carmondy would have heard. He asked the doctors who had been helping out at the General Hospital, to keep a lookout, but hadn't heard of any tourist being injured. 

"Penny for your thoughts," Felicia said behind him. 

Carmondy opened his eyes. "I'm wondering what happens next," he commented. 

She sat down on the sandy turf. "I don't know that myself. I keep wanting to call home and tell them I have to get out of here. I don't even know if my parents know what is going on." 

"Didn't the government assure you that all was well?" Carmondy said. "That there would be no more trouble?" 

"I believe that as much as I believe that you want to be a medical student," she replied sharply, cutting through his self-assurance. 

"What are you talking -- what do you mean?" Carmondy stuttered. 

"I think you know," she said. "Maybe it's time for you to come clean." 

He met her gaze guilelessly. "I'm here to look at the school with the intent of going there."

She threw a handful of sand in his face, and he gasped. "In a pig's eye, you bastard. I want the truth." 

“That is the truth," he said rubbing sand from his smarting eyes. 

"Liar." Ne heard her 1eave. 

Damn. Now what? Stupid woman 

 

*** 

 

Bennett put down the phone. His gaze swept over the two men opposite him. Florentine and Nelson waited patiently. 

"That was the president," he finally said. Their expressions indicated that they had realized that. "He's upset about Lebanon. Very upset." 

"We all are," Florentine commented harshly. "Those were our men over there. We're still digging--" 

"But he wants us to continue our planning on Grenada," Bennett cut him off. "In fact, the priority has been moved up. It's now top priority.” 

"Why?" Nelson asked baldly 

"The threat is increasing," said the NSC man woodenly. 

"Invasion?

"Why?" Nelson's question was smothered by Florentine's exclamation. 

Bennett looked from Nelson to Florentine. "Yes, invasion. Tomorrow or the next day, as soon as the president thinks it should happen. Get the troops ready." He stood up, Florentine and Nelson rising as well. “Good night, gentlemen." 

Florentine's gaze met Nelson's for a second. Both knew it was going to be a mess. The preliminary information was still incomplete. 

"The Grenadians have called in the militia, sir. They're ready for a fight," Florentine said in a low stern tone. 

"They're going to get it. Soon." Bennett picked up several papers. "I'm going to see the President. Good evening."


	13. Monday, October 24, 1983

"Admiral?" 

Nelson stopped and looked around. He had been just about to get into a taxicab to go from the hotel to the Pentagon when he heard his rank called. 

Congresswoman Wilkens waved to him as she came closer. On her lapel was a small black ribbon, a tribute to the dead troops. "I was hoping to catch up with you, Admiral." 

"Miss. Wilkens " 

"Have you seen Pete Dawber lately?" she asked unexpectedly. 

The question took him by surprise. "I...no. I haven't." 

"I know. He mentioned it to me yesterday," she said reprovingly. "You should see if you can.” 

"I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Nelson said, then regretted his haste as her eyes narrowed. 

"The affair in Lebanon is not currently the affair of the Navy," she said. "Is there something else going on, Admiral.>" 

"Nothing. We're increasing security, as I'm sure you know, Congresswomen. I've been asked to help," Nelson said, not lying a bit. Evading, maybe, but not lying. 

"I see." Her tone was unconvinced. "I do hope that the next time the President gets into something like this, he will bother to consult with Congress. I never thought that we should have troops in Lebanon." 

Nelson was acutely aware that troops were already being moved into place for the Grenadian invasion the next day. "I don't know the President that well, Barbara." 

His use of her name softened her suspicion, as he had hoped. "Nor do I. Well, I won't keep you any longer, Harry, but stop and see Pete if you can. I think you'll be surprised at what you find." 

"He's worse?. " Nelson asked sharply. 

"See for yourself." She put up her vivid red umbrella as the slight drizzle turned to solid rain, and headed down the street. 

 

*** 

 

From the steps of the General Hospital, Owen shaded his eyes and watched a freighter sail out of St. George Harbor. It had been anchored in the harbor throughout the rioting, and he had seen the captain talking with the Grenadian military authorities. Now it left. Suspicious. He ran his hands over his face. "I'm so tired,” he murmured, and startled himself. 

What was happening? he thought. Before he had got married, his thoughts had been strictly by the book and were militarily correct, but now he felt as if he was out of that world and into one which he didn't have a clue as where to go. 

It was the situation, he concluded. If the Americans planned on doing something about Grenada, he wished they'd do it quickly, and put an end to the curfew. The authorities were tightening the noose on the populace and he'd had to explain his way through several roadblocks when the ambulance was called for casualties. One soldier had nearly shot him -- out of nervousness, Owen concluded seconds later; the boy was scared to death.

He hadn't been able to get to the mental hospital at all today. He hoped Crane was keeping his promise. He didn't want his Katie to die alone, and Crane was better than no one -- much better, in fact. Owen admitted to himself that the time he'd spent on Seaview prior to rejoining his troop on the Falkland Islands had been among the most enjoyable in the last two years. The crew had been quite friendly, especially when what he’d done for their officers had come to light by what means, Owen wasn’t sure of, and Jamieson had kept in touch with Owen with a Christmas card. 

There was no one he'd prefer to have beside him more than Crane and crew, he thought. He looked down at the harbor where a small fishing boat was mooring at the yacht club, and fretted. 

 

*** 

 

The sun was burning Chip's forearms where he had rolled up the sleeves of the hibiscus- flowered shirt. Wearing worn sneakers, jeans and heavy black sunglasses, he looked like the mercenary he hoped the Grenadians would take him for. lf not, then he'd be a dumb American sailing his way around the Caribbean. Unlike Lee Crane, Chip Morton wasn't a trained espionage operator who could switch stories in a blink of an eye. He hoped he could carry it off. 

He looked out of the wooden pilothouse at the two soldiers who were uncoiling the ropes in preparation for docking at the empty wooden pier where two soldiers and a man with a clipboard were waiting. Chip licked his lips and grinned. Time to start the show. 

Kowalski leaped ashore and nearly landed on a soldier, With the contempt of a sailor for a landlubber, he ignored the man until he had tied the bow ropes that brought the Lambi snug against the pier. Patterson jumped onto the pier and secured the stern ropes. 

Putting his rattiest cap on his blond hair, Morton sauntered out onto the deck to where the bureaucrat was remonstrating with an impassive Kowalski. 

"Hey, man, I'm the boss," Morton said in his laziest tone. "What's your problem?" 

"You can't land here!" the man sputtered. "We are under martial law, there is no one who can land, you have to leave as soon as possible!" 

"All we need is some supplies and some gas," Chip argued, putting his hands flat on the flaking paint of the Lambi’s railing and leaning over "I'm not even going to get out of the harbor without it." 

The man frowned, looked up and down the boat, then at Chip, his face full of suspicion which he tried to hide. "Have you had this boat long?" 

"Besides, I've got a case of sunstroke that I need some hospital care for," Morton continued uneasily, ignoring the last question. "We need a doctor. . “ 

"A doctor Mr...?." 

"Morton," Morton said without blinking an eye. "Yeah? What's your name?" 

The bureaucrat blinked. "Anslem, Harbor Master. I will bring you a doctor but you must not leave the ship. I cannot be responsible for your safety if you or your passengers land." 

"My crew are the only ones on board," Morton said with a smack of exasperation on the railing. He didn't want to go into the status of Lambi’s former crew who were inhabiting Seaview brig at the moment. They had painted Flora over Lambi, but Chip always remembered the original name 

"I will bring you a doctor," Anslem repeated, and trotted down the pier before Morton could protest. 

The two guards watched them suspiciously as Kowalski and Patterson climbed back on board 

"So, what now?" Kowalski asked, leaving off the 'sir' with difficulty. 

"We wait for night time," Chip said in an undertone. “Or the doctor." 

"Who's ill?" Patterson questioned nervously. 

Morton grinned fractionally. "No one. But they don't know that." 

*** 

 

Nelson stepped into the hospital room and saw a huge bunch of red roses and baby's breath in a crystal vase set on the narrow ledge that bordered the window. Outside, the sun was setting, leaving streaks of orange and red across the cobalt sky, "Harry!" Dawber boomed from his bed where he was sitting up, an open Peterson's Guide to Birds in his lap, and a small pair of opera glasses on the blanket. "Nice of you to visit." 

"You're better!" Nelson said with a wide grin. "It's good to see you up and around, Pete." 

"More of that, Nelson, and I'll suspect you want me back in Congress," his friend growled waving him to a chair. "So, what are you up to at the Pentagon? And at the White House?" 

"Pentagon? White House?" Nelson caught his breath. 

Dawber wagged a finger at him. "Don't lie to Congress, Harry, it's not good for your grants. My people tell me that you've been spending a lot of time with that snake, Charlie Bennett." 

"Of course. With the situation in Lebanon--" Nelson prevaricated. 

"Before the explosion," Dawber said with sudden seriousness. "Damn, I nearly had a heart attack over that bombing, Nelson. I don't need any more of that sort of thing!" 

"They're still digging bodies out," the Admiral agreed. "The President wants to make sure the terrorists can’t get at any of our installations here. I've been consulting on security." 

Dawber stared at him shrewdly. "You aren't telling me it all, are you, Harry?" 

Nelson spread his hands innocently. "What makes you--" 

The congressman shook his head, cutting him off. "Whatever it is, don't lie to me or my office. I'll hear about what's happening one way or, another, correct?" 

"Yes," Nelson said baldly. 

"Soon?" 

Nelson's face was set in stone. "I can't discuss Pentagon matters in a non-secure area and you know that!" 

"Very well then. I hope the secrecy doesn't compromised our national interest Now, Harry, do you like birds?" 

"Birds?" 

"Yes." Dawber waved to his book. "I spotted a goshawk earlier today. Huge bird." 

"I love birds, Pete," Nelson lied. "Love them." 

 

*** 

 

The ambulance drove only halfway up the pier, then stopped. The slender form of Anslem opened one door, while out of the other came a man dressed in khakis and black boots, his dark hair as familiar as his stance. He looked over at the Lambi as the bureaucrat waved his clipboard in protest, then held up his hand. 

"Well, I'll be damned," Morton breathed. "Our guardian angels must be working overtime.” 

"That's Major Owen, isn't it, sir...urh?" Kowalski asked as he shielded his eyes from the glare.

The sun shone dazzlingly on the hood of the ambulance. 

Owen's gaze met Morton's, then he reached back into the ambulance and pulled out a medical kit. After saying something to Anslem, and shaking his head negatively, he walked down the pier to come up square against the soldiers who prevented him from coming aboard. 

"Hey!" Morton strolled forward. "Let him on!" 

Owen tapped the Red Cross armband on one shoulder, and gently, but with iron in his muscles, pushed one of the soldiers aside. 

Anslem came up behind them, talking urgently in Grenadian and the soldiers relaxed, grinning. They walked to the end of the pier and pulled out cigarettes which they lit. 

“ Who needs my help?" Owen asked with a growl, as he climbed onboard. 

"One of my crew who is below," Morton said, eyeing Anslem who looked uncertain about climbing aboard. 

"Anslem, relax. These aren't the hijackers," Owen called behind him 

"I will see you when you come back," the man said nervously and retreated to the ambulance. 

"I suspect he thinks you're all crooks, but I can take care of myself," Owen said, dryly eying Kowalski, who was hiding a grin. 

"Come below with me and I'll show you." 

"Lead on.” They clambered below to where Patterson greeted them with relief. He had been monitoring the radio in the stuffy cabin. "By the way, what happened to the hijackers?" 

"The former crew is aboard Seaview," Chip told him. "Of course, they may not be the same people who attacked you-- " 

"I could tell you that. But not right now," Owen said still tense. "Why are you here, Chip?" 

"Orders," Morton said crisply. "t have to get Carmondy out." 

"Carmondy? What a waste of time. By when?" 

Chip hesitated. 

"That soon, eh?" Owen concluded. "Well, you'll have a problem doing that, Chip I haven't seen Carmondy since we separated nearly a week ago." 

"What about Captain Crane, sir?" Patterson broke in. 

"Oh, I know where he is, all right," Owen said. 

"Where? Washington lost track of him a couple of days ago. We don't know where he is," Chip said in exasperation. 

"He's up at the mental hospital on the hill," Owen explained with a grin that broadened as the others, stared at him, stunned. 

"Oh, Lee. How the devil did he end up there, Reg?" Chip finally asked. 

Owen's face sobered. “He got run down in the rioting, and the hospital had an empty bed." 

Morton winced 

"How bad?" Kowalski asked 

"Not that bad. He'll recover." 

"Well, he should be safe enough," Chip cracked. "What can we do about finding Carmondy? Washington says he's at Grand Anse--" 

"Not a damned thing. There's a shoot-to-kill curfew out there, and the city's shut down. Only emergency vehicles are getting though," Owen said. "I think you should tell Washington that Mr. Carmondy will just have to struggle through like the rest of us." 

Morton glanced at Kowalski whose expression was noncommittal. "Ever tried to tell the Chief of Staff that kind of news, Major?" 

"Once. I ended up with a double tour in the Falklands," Owen added dryly . "I’d better be getting upstairs before Anslem has a fit." 

"Who is he?." Chip asked as they climbed up to the open deck. The air was like fine wine after the stuffy cabin. 

"He's the Harbor Master. I reported to him when the Lambi got hijacked. When he saw her again, risen from the dead as it were, he came to get me to back him up, that this was indeed the ship I had reported lost." Owen climbed over the side and onto the pier. "You're lucky. You could be in Richmond Hill Prison right now." 

"You don't see a way for us to get to Carmondy at all?." 

"Not a single way, Mr. Morton." Owen glanced at the slouching guards, then back at Chip. “But I'll be in touch." 

 

*** 

 

The night wind stirred the curtains, then their movement died. 

In the bed behind Crane, Katie Owen breathed harshly, her distended yellow-tinged body mercifully hidden under a sheet. Her condition had plummeted during the afternoon, and the nurses had bustled around until she seemed stable. 

Crane had volunteered to stay with her through the evening, promising to call loudly if her condition become worse. Actually, he was taking refuge from an invasion of Grenadian troops who had taken over the hospital and armed several of the healthier inmates. Crane had severe doubts about the entire procedure, but kept out of sight for fear of being moved to the General Hospital or back into the hotels in St. George. The mental hospital was the perfect place to observe what was going on next door at Fort Frederick. 

He flexed his foot, and felt a twinge from it. The wound was healing nicely, not enough for him to run, but enough that a padded shoe and a cane enabled him to move around. He blessed modern antibiotics and Owen for bringing him to the hospital; then he cursed the Major for making him promise to stay with Katie. 

It wasn't the promise he minded so much as the reality that he faced with the dying woman. 

There was no way to reach Owen and the man couldn't come even if he knew the end was coming, since a shoot-to-kill curfew had been instituted at sunset. Owen hadn't come at all that day, probably because of the increasing number of troops. 

Katie stirred and opened her eyes, her gaze roaming around the room. Crane turned from where he was standing by the half-opened window. The light of the single candle on the nightstand, the hospital's power having been cut with all the rest, flickered on his face. 

"Father?" she called softly. 

"I'm not a priest," he said helplessly. 

"Will you hear my....confession?" she asked. 

Crane winced. "I'm not a priest!" 

"I have to give a confession," Katie said clearly, looking beyond him into the dark night "It’s time for me to go." 

Crane reluctantly walked back to the bed and sat down beside it, taking one of her bird-thin hands in his. At this inappropriate moment, he was conscious of the overwhelming smell of her illness. "Katie, I'm a friend of Reg's. My name is Lee Crane." 

Her eyes focused on him for a second, "You're Father Heron. I'm glad you're here." 

"No. I'm not a priest!” 

"Hear me, Father, please. I fell in love with an Englishman and my family disowned me. But, I love him so much that I couldn't live without him." 

"Umm," Crane breathed uncomfortably. There was no stopping her now, no matter how embarrassed he felt. 

"But, his people...they thought he was giving information to my brothers, and I knew he wasn't, he wouldn't let them use him that way, and so we were going to leave Ireland and his job, which he was so good at..." she caught her breath in pain. 

Crane knew that was the truth now even if the British authorities would never believe it. Owen had never passed any information on to the IRA. It was a pity that the situation had cost him his career…and his wife. 

"He nearly died protecting me, and the Brits, well, they took their time... helping us. But he wasn't a traitor, Father Heron. I love him so much..." her voice trailed off. 

"He knows it. He loves you just as much," Crane said quietly. "3de should be here, not me." 

I dream, Father, of him every night. I'm so tired of it all," she said, her voice fading off. She looked out the window, her breathing fading into sleep. 

Crane laid her hand back down on the bedspread, and walked back to his position by the curtains. He could see fires in the city, and hear the sporadic shooting which meant curfew was being broken, but behind him, the soft intake and exhale of breath faded into the sound of the wind coming over the mountains. Then stopped. She was gone. 

He heard the thrum of airplane engines to the southwest where Port Salinas airport was being built by the Cubans. The sound came louder and louder, then the sky blossomed with shadows of parachutes among the glimmering stars. 

The invasion had started.


	14. Tuesday, October 25, 1983

Owen was awakened from a solid sleep by the roar of the engines and felt the earth shake under him as the first set of jets flew over the island, sending rockets into the runway. Gouts of fire exploded. 

Shouts and sounds of gunfire from the city beyond the hospital make him duck and retreat inside the flimsy stone walls of the hospital. He heard a radio that had been blaring Radio Grenada go off with a squawk, and in the silence that followed, a US attack helicopter flew by the door, stars and stripes painted on its gray metal. 

Owen thought instinctively of Katie. Whatever was going on, he had to get to her. His military training came back with a vengeance and he slid into his battered khaki jacket, adjusted the Red Cross arm band, and headed for the ambulance. 

 

***** 

 

Nelson sat in the White House situation room and stared at the huge map of Grenada which sat on the table. The taste of the invasion was sour in his mouth. Better than virtually anyone at the table, he knew how badly served the invading forces were. The maps they were using were from tourist agencies and old British navigation guides. Carmondy's photographs had helped make Port Salinas airport the first target, but the Rangers were having a hard time parachuting in, several planes having been warned off. The anti-aircraft guns at Fort Frederick took pot shots against the helicopters that were swooping around the scenic city. The only thing that had gone right was the taking of Pearls airport, where resistance was minimal. 

On a personal level, he felt uncomfortable. His captain and exec were somewhere on the island, getting Bennett's golden boy out of trouble. He knew Owen was there as well and wished that the officer was not in the line of fire. 

He pushed back from the table and wandered out to stand on the veranda. 

Bennett joined him a minute later. "Heard anything, Harry?" 

"Not a word." 

He put a hand on Nelson's shoulder in support. "I'm sure they're all right." 

"You'd better be right, Charlie. l didn't like you involving Seaview without my permission, and now her officers are in danger," Nelson said brusquely 

Bennett gave his shoulder a squeeze. "They'll come out alive, Harry, give them credit. And, I'll make sure they do nothing more dangerous for years but chase sponges!" 

 

*** 

 

Crane put on the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd come to the hospital and hobbled down the gravel path in the early morning daylight. It was still quiet out there, except for the attacking gunships and sporadic gunfire from the building next to the asylum. 

He wasn't sure why he'd decided to leave and find Owen. It was just an unmistakable gut feeling that Owen needed to know about Katie as soon as possible. I must be delusional or feverish. 

Pausing for a second on the veranda, he looked over the harbor. Several fishing boats and a schooner swung at their anchors, a steamer with a red and white ensign waving in the breeze sat 

reflected in the calm waters. On the horizon, he saw a larger ship, probably an aircraft carrier, judging from its bulk, with airplanes and helicopters buzzing around it. 

 

He headed down towards the stone walls and iron gate that kept the inmates from the rest of St. George. 

A helicopter flew by, shooting at Fort Frederick next door, and Crane pressed himself against the stone wall trying to become like fly paper. 

A gun fired right outside the gateway. Looking out for a fraction of a second, Crane saw a group of soldiers running frantically down the road, He sank down into a squat, waiting for his moment to leave without getting caught by anyone. 

 

*** 

 

Carmondy had also been awakened by the roar of engines, but he automatically rolled over into as small as a 1ump as he could get until the noise died. It was an appalling din that shattered the morning air. Then he got up and headed for the upper floor of the university where he could get a view of what was going on. 

Unsurprisingly, Felicia was there already, half-hidden behind one of the walls where she was shielded, but could still look out. 

"What do you see?" he asked, coming up beside her. 

She glanced back at him with disinterest. "Just woke up? Or were you down with Hector like you were yesterday?" 

"Just woke up. How long have you been up?" 

"A couple of hours. I couldn't sleep." 

"That call from the hospital?" he said. He had heard the phone ring once. "Local calls?" 

"Yeah, I got a call from the crazy House. Katie Owen died last night." 

Carmondy looked surprised. "Why'd you want to know?" 

"She was one of my patients for a paper," Felicia said in a sad tone. "On the effects of infections hepatitis. That's how I knew all about her. She was a nice lady." 

"So, she's dead. Going to tell Alice?" 

Felicia turned and slapped his face, taking him totally by surprise. "Give Katie some respect, you creep! Her husband probably doesn't even know yet, and you're already trying to foist Alice off on him!" 

A helicopter roared by, and both of them ducked away from the doors. 

Carmondy flushed. It had been tactless, but the first thing he'd thought of when Felicia said, was Alice's comment on Owen's being "all man", and licking her lips. "I'm sorry, Felicia. It was the wrong thing to say," he said sincerely. 

She screamed. 

Carmondy's head went up, and instinctively, lie pulled her back from the doorway where a huge, indistinct figure loomed suddenly on the other side of the wavy glass. 

The door crashed open and the soldier came inside, his machine gun held ready. 

Carmondy saw the US flag on one shoulder and realized that he had finally been rescued. 

"Don't move," he whispered to the shaking girl. "It's all right. They're our soldiers." 

 

*** 

 

Crane jimmied open the lock and slipped out the gate, then made a dive for a bush as a helicopter went by. Coming up, peppered with stone fragments and dust from the bullet-pocked wall, he saw an ambulance stop. A man darted out and ran for the asylum's gateway. 

"Owen!" Crane yelled at the top of his lungs and lunged out. Owen hesitated then went down, Crane's weight tripping him up. They both hit the stone wall and were dazed for a second. 

Over their heads roared jets and then they heard the familiar whine of missiles in flight. With a tremendous boom, the mental hospital beyond the wall was smashed into rubble by several bombs that had probably been aimed at Fort Frederick which stood unscathed three thousand yards away . 

"Katie!" Owen screamed as he looked into the swirling dust. 

"Reg! Owen!" Crane shook him, trying to get his attention. "Reginald Owen! 

Owen struggled against Crane. 

"Reg, she's dead. She died last night," Crane yelled in Owen's face. The major froze. A bullet whined over their heads, and a puff of stone powder sifted over them, but neither man moved. 

Owen stared at him in disbelief, his face stark with shock. "She's dead? Dead?" 

"Yes, last night. She's gone, Owen! Peacefully." Crane didn't relax his grip on Owen's arms. 

"Gone? How would you know?" 

Crane hesitated, then took a deep breath. "You asked me to stay, remember? I was there last night." 

"You were there," Owen said, lost. "What..." 

"This isn't the time for it, Reg! Let's get some cover before they drop some more bombs on our heads." Crane gave him a shake, then relaxed his grip slightly. 

Owen looked back at the rubble of the asylum where chalk dust was still rising. They could hear the screams of the wounded where they lay in the piles of concrete. "The nurses..." 

"We can't help them while they're still bombing the damned island, Reg! Someone will think we're part of the invasion, and they'll shoot us! Come on, let's get to some cover 'til the bullets stop." 

Owen stared at him, then back at the hospital, then back again. "She's really gone, Lee? " 

"Yes,'” Crane said starkly. 

"Then... let's get some cover before we get killed." Crane saw the mask that he knew so well from the Falklands, the British commando who had survived alone for a week against the Argentine army before capture, was back, the grieving husband stored away for another time. 

"Right. Got any suggestions?" 

 

*** 

 

Nelson stuck his head around the door to Dawber's room and saw it was mercifully empty of anyone but Pete. His uniform had caused a stir on the way up, with questions being asked by some of the nurses, but he'd finally gotten free and sneaked up the staircase till he reached Dawber's floor. 

"Peter?" He wasn't too sure of his greeting either. 

The congressman opened his eyes and rolled his head to stare at Nelson. "Harry." His tone was flat. One hand flicked on the remote and the television blared to life, wall-to-wall coverage of the attack even if the press hadn't been able to reach the island. 

Nelson winced. He watched himself and Charlie Bennett run the gauntlet of reporters and broadcasters into the White House. "Pete?" 

"Get in here." That tone brooked no rebellion. 

Nelson sat in a chair beneath the television. 

"Who planned this?" Pete asked. 

"I'm not at liberty to say...and you know it!" 

"They didn't ask Congress?" 

"The War Powers Resolution says 'they' didn't have to." 

"That will be changed," Dawber said sarcastically. "My God, Harry, we just lost two-hundred- plus Marines in Lebanon and you folk have gone and us involved in some little Caribbean hole in the ground! Are more casualties supposed to make us feel better?" 

Nelson winced. "Not my idea, Pete. I followed orders." 

"And you do it well," a cold female voice came from the doorway, Barbara Wilkens came in with a very unforgiving stare on her face. "Congress won't support the President on this, Nelson." 

"It's already underway," Nelson said neutrally. "The Caribbean nations asked for our assistance. It's all part of the record, Representative Wilkens." 

"A record we didn't get to see until today," she spat out. 

"Some senators are supporting the action," Dawber commented thoughtfully. "Conservatives see it as a way to prevent more of a Soviet presence in the Caribbean." 

"That's just an excuse! We weren't asked!" Wilkens said angrily. 

That was the sticking point, Nelson thought. He remembered Bennett saying he'd take care of Congress. W ell, he'd done a fine job of that. He came back to reality with a jolt as the congresswoman went over to stand by Dawber where she could see the television. 

"I've got to get back," Nelson said, settling his uniform cap on his head. 

"I'll see you in committee, Admiral," she called ominously as he walked out. 

Dawber shook his head in sorrow. "All our boys dying for a hunk of lava. What a waste." 

 

***

 

Owen would have agreed with Dawber's sentiment if he heard it, but his attention was currently wrapped up in getting Crane down to the docks. 

The shooting going on down at Port Salinas and over at the hospital had abated, but the soldiers in the city were nervously shooting at anything that moved. 

Owen looked up at the clock tower which overlooked the school and saw that it was nearly three p.m. 

"Where are we going?" Crane asked, looking around distrustfully. The streets were mostly empty except for an occasional civilian who would dodge across the cobblestones, and groups of soldiers, who pointed their guns at the ambulance until they saw the markings. 

"The yacht club," Owen said tensely, his attention on his driving. 

"Isn't that halfway across the city?" 

"Yes. It's also where your Exec's tied up." 

Crane stared at him blankly. "Seaview’s tied up in St. George Harbor?" 

"No, just Chip Morton and the Lambi." 

"What? Explain!" 

Owen talked as he drove the van up and down the winding hills. "I can't think of a place that's safer from--" 

"Look out!" Crane yelled, pointing at a crouching figure next to the church. 

Owen ducked as a bullet took out the windshield, but didn't hit the brakes as the ambulance coasted past the shooter. The bullets perforated the metal sides as they passed. "'How are you, Lee?" 

Crane was covered with glass, but only had a few scrapes. "I'm in good shape, all things considered. How about you?" 

Owen smiled grimly. "Been worse cut up fishing." 

"Is that the dock?" Crane pointed downward. 

"That's it." 

The yacht club was directly across the bay from the General Hospital and Fort Rupert. Over the tops of the trees, they could see the attack helicopters flying in circles around the Fort, flashes from their guns directed at the defenders. 

"Seriously, Lee, how fast can you move?" Owen asked, stopping the ambulance at the end of the dock. 

"I can hobble," Crane replied honestly. "It's starting to throb." 

"Then you'd better let me go first. There were a couple of soldiers here before." 

"There they are," Crane muttered nodding his head towards the two men who were coming belligerently down the dock, their guns held ready. Nothing moved on the fishing boat at the end 

"Let me deal with this," Owen said, opening the door and climbing out Crane didn't envy the soldiers one bit. 

Owen walked down the wooden pier, his hands held outstretched in peace. The armband was prominently displayed. 

"What do you want?." demanded one of the soldiers 

"I promised I'd come back. and see the sick man," Owen said calmly. He hadn't felt this peaceful since Northern Ireland, just before he was shot. The memory made him feel uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, then vanished. 

"Do you have any news?" the soldier asked. "What is happening?" 

"I believe the United States is attacking Grenada," Owen informed them. "I'd suggest you give up at the first sign of an American." 

"We're not cowards," the man said grimly, taking a good hold of his rifle. 

"I didn't mean to say that," Owen said hastily. He was out of practice on calming people down, and he'd never been that good at it. "Do you want to be shot?. The Americans are an aggressive sort." 

"Who's in the bus with you?" the other soldier broke in. 

"My assistant," Owen replied, hoping Crane could hear him. "I told him -- duck!" 

The helicopter flew by them, bullets splaying onto the water near to the yacht club. 

The second soldier dived into the water beside the Lambi to get away, while Owen and the first man ducked, both praying that they wouldn't be hit 

Back in the ambulance, Crane bit his lip. He saw movement on the fishing boat, and a familiar tow head peering over the edge. Chip Morton. 

"I've heard the Americans have taken over most of the island," Owen lied, staring the man in the eyes. "You'd be better off going up to Fort Rupert or down to the barracks at Frequente than sitting here guarding the docks." 

The man took a firm grip on the rifle. "I don't believe you." 

Owen shrugged. "Okay." 

"So, you will take me up to Fort Rupert t in the ambulance. The Americans are not shooting at that." 

Owen half-turned to look at the vehicle. "That's going to be hard, because I'm almost out of gas and barely made it here.” 

The soldier frowned. "Why didn't you -- there it is again!" 

The helicopter roared by. The soldier aimed his rifle at it and fired several times. The helicopter's sound gave a hiccup and the chopper wavered for a second before starting down for the tennis courts that bordered the Taunteen field next to the yacht club. 

"Damn!" Owen swore and lunged at the man, fighting for the gun. 

Crane climbed out of the ambulance and limped towards the fighters. 

Morton scrambled out of the boat and started for the pair. 

Owen struggled with the man, then the soldier caught his heel and fell, his gun going off  
twice 

Crane saw Owen's body twitch as he was blown backward, and fell into the cold water 

Without a thought, Crane dived in after him. 

Above them, Chip hit the soldier, knocking him out 

 

Crane swam through the murky water, brushing past driftwood and seaweed, and the debris that crowded the harbor-, until he saw a large bulky form sinking in front of him. With one last kick, he headed for it. 

Owen felt someone grab his arms and tug, and somewhere in his shocked consciousness, he knew he had to kick his feet against the lassitude that had hit when he hit the water. Darkness came and went as he weakly kicked, but pain in his head overcame him, and he sank into the watery darkness. 

Crane tugged at the limp body, his chest burning from lack of air. Dimly he saw someone on the other side, pulling as well, and then they started to go up. He surfaced into sunlight and fresh air and he sucked it in, his hands frozen on the khaki cloth of Owen's jacket as the man's bloody head came above the water. 

On the other side, Kowalski gasped for air, as he slid an arm around Owen's limp body. 

"Captain Crane!" 

"'Ski" Crane called. "Get him to...to the boat." 

']Aye, Sir," Kowalski panted, and both men pulled at Owen till they were alongside the Lambi. 

Morton and Patterson lifted the wounded man into the boat, then Kowalski climbed up the rope that Patterson threw him. Chip held out his hand to Crane, and the captain climbed aboard, dripping dirty water from all his clothing. "Welcome back, Lee." 

"Thanks." 

For all that had happened in the previous minute, the harbor was calm. No helicopters, no jets flying across the sky, nothing to signify there was a war except for the bullet-holed man lying at their feet in a pool of watery blood. 

Crane and Morton turned Owen over, seeing the a bullet hole ripped in his shin, and blood running from a gash in his hair. 

"Well, now...he has them coming and...going," Crane whispered, feeling a stab of pain as his foot hit the wooden deck. 

Morton suddenly laughed. To Crane's horror, he rapped on Owen's chest, and it gave off a dull thud. "He's wearing a vest!" 

With a flash, Crane remembered the bullet-holed flak vest in Owen's closet. "Boy Scout," Crane laughed. "Always prepared." 

"I think he's unconscious from that head wound," Kowalski added. "The bullet's going to give him a helluva chest bruise. at shall we do now, sir?" 

"Get below," Chip ordered seeing that Crane was still in no condition to take command. "Jamieson set up a first-aid kit. I'm sure the water wasn't good for any of us." 

"We'll all need a tetanus shot. Besides," Crane added, hobbling with Patterson's help towards the cabins, "they're still shooting people out here."


	15. Wednesday, October 26, 1984

"The morning papers," Bennett cried when one of the younger men brought in the Washington Post and the New York Tines. "Look at that! We've got a three line headline in the Times!" 

Grenada had pushed Lebanon into a side strip story. 

Looking at Bennett, Nelson realized this was one of the reasons the NSC man had pushed for the invasion. It was a chance to make the US look good again, after the catastrophe in Lebanon. 

What a hell of an excuse. The other members of the Organization of American States had condemned the US, as had the Russians, the Cubans, and the British. Even the American Congress was upset by the invasion. And a Colonel Pardimous was asking questions about Major Owen and whether he was now working for the Americans. It was a public relations fiasco but a successful military operation. He just hoped that his friends were safe in the mess. The Cuban government had held an early morning news conference regarding the non-military status of their- workers in Cuba, but they were ignored. 

Nelson walked out of the White House, and down past the Washington Monument to the Tidal Basin where the Jefferson Memorial was reflected serenely in the water. It was all serene and beautiful, the capital city of a civilized land. A far cry from the bloody reports coming from the Caribbean where one of the attack helicopters had gone down over St. George. 

A seagull came out of the dawn, cawing and dipping low over his head, then reaching down to steal a fish from the waters. He watched it sail off into the darkness, and then rubbed his eyes. The skin around them was dry from foo much time in the air conditioning. 

"Admiral Nelson?" Florentine called behind him. 

Nelson turned as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs came up beside him. "Sir?" 

"What a night, eh? Thank God, indeed, Harry, that this invasion's almost over. The Cubans gave in around nine-thirty last night." 

Nelson sighed and looked back at the gorgeous scene of the Tidal Basin at dawn. "It is a lovely day here, Mark." 

"I agree," the Chairman agreed. "We'd better go back, though, if you want to get all the details." 

 

*** 

 

Owen was lying in a haze of pain, but the angry voices were finally starting to make sense as he concentrated on them. 

"What's going on, Chip?" That was Crane's tone. 

"The Army found us," Morton replied dryly. "I spent an hour repelling boarders and explaining what the hell we were doing here." 

"You didn't tell them who we were!" Crane said horrified. 

"I had to, Lee! They wanted all the ship's papers, which don't match the current name, Flora, but Lambi, and I don't look like I was born in Honduras and go by the name 'Dealli'," Chip said in an exasperated tone. "Besides, they wanted to know about the unconscious soldier Kowalski left on the dock and why we had bloodstains on the deck. No, don't get up, they're gone for now." 

Crane must have ignored the comment and sat up from the sound of the creaking bunk. "What the hell did you tell them, Chip?" 

"I told him I'd only speak with one of their superior officers, and that if he wanted to leave one of his troops on guard down here, to go ahead. He rammed himself onboard at five am, nearly shot Kowalski, who was on guard." 

' The Marines landed at five?" 

“The Marines landed at four -- it took them an hour to get to this half of the city, There's still shooting going on. Everyone's under cover," Morton concluded. 

"What time is it now?" Crane asked. 

"Just past dawn." Morton must have moved because Owen felt the touch of a hand on the bandage that covered his throbbing head wound. "He hasn't woken up yet." 

“Think we should take him up to the hospital?" 

"That's in the heart of the shooting." The hand moved from the bandage to his neck checking on the steady beat, then left. "I think he's okay, Lee. Hell of a bruise from the bullet, but that flak jacket saved his life. The bullet must have gone in a strange angle and not through him.” 

“Good,” Crane said in a slightly sour tone. “I didn’t look forward to explaining to the British military that we got one of their officers killed invading Grenada." 

"That would look bad on the report," Chip chuckled. 

"Mr. Morton!" Kowalski called down the stairs. "There's an At my officer coming down the pier and he looks...well, annoyed." 

Crane chuckled. "Want me to take care of this?" 

',You're the senior officer on board," Morton retorted.

"Arggh!" 

"That foot still bad?" Chip asked solicitously. 

"Jamieson won't be pleased when we make it back. Was he really taking bets on how much damage there would be?" 

Morton chuckled. "It was one of the corpsmen and it was damage or Carmondy they were betting on." 

Crane snorted. "Come upstairs. I think Owen's safe down here." 

"I'll follow you up. Don't hurt yourself on the steps," Morton said. 

Owen heard them shuffling, some banging and Crane cursing then a draft of clean air swept over the prone man as the cabin door opened. They momentarily blocked the light, then climbed the stairs, just in then to meet a set of very solid boot thumps as what was probably the Army officer came aboard. 

Owen thought idly that the officer had to be carrying full kit to sound so much like a rhinoceros. 

He reveled in the sudden peace and floating feeling that came from a good solid dose of painkillers. After a second, he realized that he didn't have a worry in the world at that moment -- he couldn't move, but was in the hands of friends, he didn't have to report to anyone officially since he was on leave and...with Katie gone, he didn't even have a reason to stay in Grenada. 

Reality washed over him, bringing the pain in his head to prominence as well as a burning feeling in his chest. Katie... Grimly, he remembered Crane's words just before the hospital was blown up. She was dead. Someday, Owen was going to ask for the details of the night, but not now. Instinctively he shied away from it; he'd seen too many men go through the same procedure either with wives or family, and knowing too much too soon had hurt them. Besides, he had all the time in the world, now, to find out what happened. 

He stirred, bringing his hand up on his chest and brushing it against a bandage where the bullet had hit the vest. He tried shifting his body but felt nothing move. Jamieson must have sent some powerful drugs to get this effect. 

Suddenly, he realized that now he'd always remember Katie alive, not dead. If he worked on it, he'd remember her before the shooting and the disease, the way she'd been when she'd forced him to fall in love with her-- 

Wham! The door must have been flung back forcefully, because the reverberations echoed in the still cabin. Someone entered, heavy-footed, and came over to where Owen was lying. 

He tried to open his eyes but he couldn’t. All he cou1d do was listen, as 1imping steps announced the entry of Lee Crane. 

"Satisfied?." Crane demanded coldly. 

"Not really," the flat Midwestern voice said. "Who is this man and why is he lying wounded down here? And what the hell are those clothes?" 

Something rustled. 

Crane sighed. "Those are his clothes. We had to strip him to get at the wound--." 

"That doesn't explain a thing," Midwestern said. "Hell, that's a Red Cross armband there, and that's a flak jacket that's covered with blood!" His tone was deeply suspicious. 

"Sure, he was working up at the hospital," Crane replied, his tone suddenly agreeable. The bunk creaked. He must have sat down. "But he got shot by one of the Grenadian soldiers -- in fact, the one you have in custody, and no one was going to take him through a gun battle to the hospital which is probably overcrowded anyway!" 

"What about the jacket?" 

"He got it out when he saw shooting. It's his. You can ask him about it later." 

"You say you're an American Navy officer?" Midwestern was now openly doubtful. 

Crane chuckled. "Lieutenant, I suggest you get on the horn and ask the Navy to either get in touch with an Admiral Nelson who is in Washington DC at the moment, or ask them to run my name through the files and find out where I'm assigned. And while you're at it, check my Exec's through as well. Then take our fingerprints and run them through. That should satisfy you." 

"Umm, yes, sir." Midwestern's tone was changing. "But that doesn't explain what you're doing here, sir." 

"Lieutenant, I don't have to explain it to you at this time," Crane said coldly. "Run it through your files, and get it straightened out. In the meantime, I would appreciate knowing when you are finished taking the city, so I can get this man to the hospital." 

A second's pause, then the Lieutenant said apologetically, "I'll be leaving a guard on the dock until this is cleared up, Sir." 

"That's fine," Crane replied. "Go ahead. I'm sure you can get all the details from my Exec upstairs. Lieutenant?" 

The footsteps had already started for the stairs, but paused. "Yes, sir?”" 

"Be discreet when you call Washington and Admiral Nelson. I'd hate the press to know we were here before the invasion because of sloppy radio procedure," Crane said as sternly as he could. 

Owen could just imagine the Lieutenant's expression as he imagined the reaming he could get for that sort of thing. He left, from the sound of heavy boots, and Crane probably leaned back against the wooden hull and sighed. 

"Are you awake?” the captain said unexpectedly. 

Owen tried to say something, but nothing came out but a sigh. He moved his hand slightly. 

"I thought so," Crane said. "Well, go back to sleep before Doctor Morton gets down here again with more drugs." 

Owen's lips twitched. "What...now?" he whispered. 

"Not a thing until the shooting stops. Depends on what the Lieutenant conies up with out there." 

"The others… " 

"Kowalski and Patterson are on watch. Chip should be down in a second. Something burned all last night up on the hill. Good bonfire." 

“Hospital?” 

Crane's bunk creaked. “Nothing new. No more air strikes, though It'll probably be over in a couple of hours, Reg." 

"I need " 

“A doctor. Well, we'll get you up there--" 

Owen's hand moved, brushing the wound and giving him a spasm of pain. 'Urf!” 

“You can't do a thing right now about Katie." 

“'What's up?" Morton asked, as he clattered down the stairs. 

"You tell us." 

The Lieutenant's calling the carrier, and I only hope Sparks is listening because I'm sure Seaview is out there." 

“They can send the Flying Sub for us," Crane observed. 

“After the shooting stops. Is he awake? Can you hear me, Reg?" Morton questioned 

"Let him sleep." 

 

*** 

 

Bennett greeted Nelson with a clap on his shoulder. "Harry, I wanted you to know that we've had confirmation that your men in Grenada are safe." 

"What are you saying?" 

"Lieutenant Rannif of the Rangers called in something about Naval officers and cited both Commanders Crane and Morton. I told the brass to shut him up, but also instructed that he was to help them in anyway possible." 

Nelson felt a huge burden slid off his shoulders. "You sent him a message?" 

Bennett was becoming absorbed in a paper in his hand. "Hmm? Oh, I told the carrier's captain to help out any way he could. I told him couldn't explain why Crane and Morton were there, but I would appreciate any help in getting them returned as soon as possible. You have your men back safely, and now they are." 

"I'll call Seaview and see if they can meet up with the carrier. They can hand over their prisoners and retrieve Crane--" 

Bennett's expression was blank. "Prisoners?" 

Nelson reminded himself that Bennett had a lot on his mind right now. ^"The former pirates off the Lambi?" 

"Oh. Right." Bennett shuffled through his folders, his mind already onto other things. "Take care of it, Harry." 

Nelson picked up his hat. "I will, Charlie. I will." 

He left the office with a sigh of relief, passed the Secret Service men and military officers who were bustling around the halls, and walked out to the veranda. 

Unexpectedly, he was joined by Florentine. "Harry, I hear your people are all right," the Chairman said forthrightly. 

"Yes, I just heard." 

Florentine's expression was grim. '!Nelson, watch your back." 

"What? Why?" 

"The powers-that-be are notorious for being forgetful. Bennett's boy, Carmondy, finally called in. He's throwing out some nasty comments out about your men and Seaview. I don't know how much Charlie’s listening to, but..." 

Nelson held out his hand. "Thanks, Mark. I'll remember this." 

Florentine shook it. "I have one other message for you. Senator Dawber wants to see you. Remind him that I'm not an errand boy." 

The Admiral grinned. "I'll do that." 

 

*** 

 

"Lee, they've taken the hill where the hospital is," Morton called unexpectedly downstairs. 

Owen opened his eyes. The painkillers had basically worn off enough for him to be conscious. 

He saw Crane look at him, then hitch himself off the bunk and limp to the door. “Can we get passage there?" 

"Lieutenant Rannif says the way's clear if we want to send Owen up . He's been helpful since he got new orders from Washington." 

"Is that ambulance still working?" Crane asked. 

"I don't need it," Owen said creakily. He made an effort and sat up before he went white as a sheet, and fell back. 

Crane shook his head. "You're the most stubborn SOB I know, Reg." 

"You’re planning on leaving already?" Morton said, exasperated, as he clattered down the steep steps. "Give it up, Reg!" 

Owen's hand caught Crane's upper arm and used it as a lever to get upright "l don't need the hospital." 

"You are in no shape to go up to Katie," Crane said brutally. "If that's what you have in mind." 

Owen's face was white as a sheet. "You're going to be going back to Seaview shortly. I still have a job to do back there." 

"She'll wait for you," Crane said, then wished he'd stayed quiet. 

Morton looked from Crane to Owen, then swallowed. "Your wife?." 

"Is dead," Owen said flatly. 

"You're going to take her back to Ireland?" Crane asked. 

"Of... course. Her parents would insist on burying her in the family plot." Owen chuckled, a raw sound. "They wouldn't make room for me." 

"Not your friends?." Morton inquired. 

"No. I'll go back to London and talk...to.... ll 

"Welch?" Crane asked. 

"Are you going to ask him about..." Crane let his voice trail off 

"About what Katie said? I have to find out the truth." 

Morton looked mystified. "What's this about?." 

All Crane could think of was that Owen would be going back to work for the man who might have set him up to be murdered, and who, if it was true, had murdered his wife. There had to be a way out of the mess. "Reg, have you ever thought of moving to Southern California?" 

"No Never." 

Chip looked from one man to the other. "You'd like it, Reg. Warmer than the Falklands." 

Owen sat upright, and swayed, his bandaged head rocking. "I still need to get out of here." 

Morton exchanged a look with Crane, then deliberately put his hand under Owen's arm. "Kowalski says the ambulance is still running. Come on. You're going to the hospital. If they certify you can leave, then you can leave." 

"We'll dig her out for you," Crane said abruptly, then wished he hadn't from the expression on Owen's face. "You're in no shape to do it." 

“That would be imposing on you," Owen grated. 

“Not really. I was there, Reg. I want to see that she's properly taken care of," Crane argued. "So let's go." 

*** 

Nelson knew there were only five minutes left before the end of the morning visiting hours and had planned his arrival accordingly. What he hadn’t expected to find was Linda Gable sitting by the bedside as he entered. Both she and Dawber stared at him coldly. 

"Ms. Gable," Nelson greeted her, holding out his right-hand. 

She didn't move. "Admiral,” she said with icy reserve. 

"So, what do you think of your work now?" Dawber questioned astringently. "Good work?" 

Nelson waved at the moving television screen. "It)s a success." 

"I meant your work at NIMR," Dawber said stingily. "Sponges, indeed! What an excuse to visit Washington. And, I fell for--" 

"That was why I came here," Nelson replied defensively. “Bennett--" 

"Congress is after Charlie Bennett," Linda interrupted. "T give him...oh, six weeks." 

"Politics is a nasty business," Dawber- agreed. "Let's give him a couple of months, Linda. But, Harry, you're stuck in the middle of this. Your sob story about sponges isn't going to play well in front of a Congressional committee, especially since you've been at the White House a lot this last week." 

"Bur it is the truth!" Nelson protested. 

"That's beside the point," Gable said witheringly. 

Nelson sat down on the other chair and took off his hat. "So, we lose the sponges?" 

"And gain a volcanic rock in the middle of nowhere," Dawber said angrily. "What a fiasco, Harry!" 

The Admiral felt Gable's gaze on him and finally looked up to meet her unsympathetic eyes. 

"I wasn't lying to either of you. I came here about Florida and got swept into Grenada. I guess I lose the sponges." 

"No, you don't," she said with a sudden trace of a smile, her eyes warming slightly. "Dorrit and John have found private backers if Congress fails to come through with your grants. A couple of universities and some loose cash from an unknown source-- " 

"Charlie Bennett, no doubt," Dawber commented sagely. 

"And, you've saved the sponges, Admiral. Just don't expect any more favors from Capitol Hill. You're not going to get them." 

 

***

 

Carmondy climbed off the late afternoon flight out of Grenada with massive relief. He had faked his student credentials, but the best thing of all was that he'd managed to finally get a phone call to Washington and talk with his bosses. There would be a private Learjet waiting for him at Charleston, N.C. to get him back to Washington as soon as possible. He reveled in the thought. It was definitely his due after this mission. 

He looked around at the crowded terminal where a group of people were greeting the students with placards that read "Welcome Home" and applause. The sound level went up as the students got in line to use the public telephones to call their parents. 

"Hey, Adam," a voice purred behind him, and someone slid their arm though the crook of his, holding him tightly. 

He froze, then turned with a fake grin. 

Alice smiled at him winningly, Felicia and Toni, their arms crossed standing just behind her. 

It's the three witches from Macbeth, Carmondy thought. All they needed was a cauldron. 

"Planning on leaving without saying goodbye?" Felicia asked with an equally insincere smile. 

"That would be a pity," Toni said sharply. "After all we've done for you? 

With vast relief, Carmondy saw an officer coming through the crowds towards him. 

Apparently he had a photograph because the man headed unerringly in his direction. 

"I've... I'll miss you, girls. Especially you, Alice," he said smiling at her. ')But I have to go now. 

"I thought you were looking into medical school?" Felicia said sharply. 

"He was just playing doctor," Toni added acidly. "Let him go, Alice." 

Alice pouted, then let go of Carmondy's arm. "Not a photographer for Playboy?" 

"More like the CIA," Felicia commented looking at the officer who had finally reached them 

"Or some other part of the government." 

Carmondy's mouth opened, then shut. "I..." he stuttered, then shook his head. "I am not part of the CIA. But, I do have to go." 

"Goodbye," Toni said with disinterest. "Come on, ladies, let's get in lines for the phones." 

Felicia smiled at him. "Take care, 'Adam'. I'm sure we'll meet again." 

Carmondy had the sinking feeling that they would. He watched them disappear into the crowd and then turned to the officer with perceptible relief, 

"Captain Pomerstein?" the man asked hopefully. 

"Richard Carmondy." 

"Oh. I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else," the man said and headed back into the crowd 

With a surge of anger, Carmondy headed for the information desk to find out where his Learjet was. They’d promised him a Learjet.


	16. Thursday, October 27, 1983

Owen staggered slightly as he walked out of the General Hospital and headed up the hill to where the ruins of the asylum were still hidden behind a haze of concrete dust. American troops eyed him, but let him pass since he was clearly not one of the escaping Grenadian soldiers, and his expression was of a military cast. 

He reached the gates and paused for a second, seeing a crowd of people in front of him, some wearing face masks. A small line of bodies, mercifully covered, lay to one side and workmen were digging among the rubble after more. 

Morton loomed unexpectedly on the right. "They let you out?" he said incredulously. 

"They've got more to worry about than me," Owen said, "Where is she?" 

"Hold on a second, Reg, I've left Kowalski with one of the nurses. They’re tracking her down," Morton said soberly 

Owen pushed past him and headed for where a cluster of nurses were standing with several American troopers and officers. One woman detached herself from the e crowd and came to meet him, tears running down her dust-covered cheeks. "Major?" 

"Nurse Abri?" he said gently, taking her hands. 

Her gaze went to the bandage around his head. "You were hurt?" 

"Not badly. Where is she?" 

The woman put her hands on his shoulders and gave him an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Major. I’m so sorry." 

"What is it?." he said urgently 

"The only safe thing we could do was cremate the bodies this morning," she explained. "In this climate--" 

"Cremate?" Owen exclaimed. "Cremate?" 

"The ashes are over there," Kowalski said coming up next to Morton. "They’re all clearly marked." 

Owen shook his head, then winced as it throbbed. "Her parents aren't going to like that." 

Morton shook his head. "They'll have to deal with it, Reg." 

“Where is she?." 

The ashes were in a small plain box about the size of a cookie tin. Amazing how a whole life could be put in a cookie tin, Owen thought dazed. 

"I...I think I'll go back to my flat," Owen said, taking the ashes. 

"Want refuge on Seaview?" Morton asked quietly. 

Owen looked up at him, his expression controlled. The walls were back up. "No, Thank you." 

Chip nodded. "We’d better get down to the Lambi again before Lee decides to sail her out alone. He'd be here, but the Army need some more information." 

"He'd just be underfoot. I've a few things to finish up here," Owen said quietly. "Thanks, Chip." 

"Call us if you need us," Chip replied 1n deadly earnest. "Take care of yourself, Reg. Kowalski, let's go." 

The seaman gave Owen a look of commiseration then followed Morton back into the city. 

Owen sat down on the grassy verge, the ashes beside him, and buried his head in his hands 

 

*** 

 

Nelson raised an eyebrow at his friend as a tall, handsome, sun-tanned young man with a bad1y sunburnt nose walked in with Charlie Bennett. 

"Admiral Nelson, this is Richard Carmondy," Bennett introduced him. 

Carmondy came around the desk, his hand outstretched. "Glad to meet you, sir." 

Nelson shook his hand while eying him suspiciously. "I'm happy to see you alive, Mr. Carmondy. How did you get out of Grenada?" 

"I took one of the commercial flights," Carmondy explained. "I was with the students out at the University when the invasion happened." 

"I was just saying to him that I sent one of Seaview’s officers in to get him out," Bennett said dryly. "But--" 

“I never saw them," Carmondy commented, sitting down. "I lost track of Crane not long after I landed." 

The Admiral waved a dispatch that he had carried in with him. "Crane’s with Chip Morton and the others in Grenada harbor." 

"All right?" Carmondy asked. 

"Besides Crane's wounded foot, they're all intact," Nelson said brusquely. "I have O'Brien's report right here. I think you should read it, Charlie. It should fill in a number of gaps." 

Carmondy looked a bit nervous. “Your men got back safely, Admiral?” 

"Yes, they called Seaview and the Flying Sub is on the way to get them. They're turning the Lambi over to the Grenadians, to a harbor official called Anslem, and are turning in some pirates as well. I've ordered Seaview to Norfolk to pick me up there," Nelson added. "I have some other work to do here in Washington before I go back." 

Bennett frowned at the dispatch. "What's all this about Owen?" 

"That's what I have to talk to you and the British about," Nelson said "t want. to help him out. 

Carmondy shrugged "He wasn't exactly helpful in Grenada." 

"You have no idea," Nelson replied icily. "You have no idea, Mr. Carmondy, how helpful he was. 

*** 

 

Crane clambered up into the control room with a sigh of pure relief. Chip and the others had preceded him and were gathered in a chattering group. 

"Better let Jamie look at that foot, Captain," Morton suggested, once again becoming the Executive officer. 

Looking around, Crane saw ,Jamieson moving in. "You called him, didn't you?" he said under his breath. 

"Nonsense, Captain," ,Jamieson said briskly. "l always expect you to come back injured." 

Crane struggled not to let the grin come out, but it escaped despite him. "I don't need to be carried." 

"Then just lean on me, sir, and I'll help you," Jamieson replied smoothly. 

Morton turned to O'Brien. "Status?" 

The officer ignored Morton's brilliant shirt and worn jeans, but couldn't distract himself from the ratty cap. "We have orders from the Admiral, sir, to go to Norfolk." 

"Very good. Set the course. I'm going to get changed." 

***

Jamieson led the way to Sick Say and Lee hitched himself up onto the table. 

Crane hitched up his foot so that the doctor could see it clearly. "It got soaked in harbor water." 

"You got a tetanus shot?," ,Jamieson asked 

 

“Yes. It was in the kit." 

"I remember packing it. What happened there, Lee?" 

Crane looked startled. It was rare that Jamieson asked operational questions. "On Grenada?" 

"To Reg." 

Crane hesitated. Jamieson paused, looking at him searchingly, then went on unwrapping the bandages. "Owen's still alive. Not exactly healthy, but alive. 

The doctor let out a sigh of relief, then frowned as he took off the last bandage. "This is still a bit of a mess. You should stay off it for a day or so, but I know you won't. I'll get you a padded shoe. What do you mean by 'not exactly healthy'?" 

“He got shot a couple of times, but nothing permanent," Crane prevaricated. 

"Just enough to leave more scars. What about his wife?" 

"She died." 

Jamieson looked up with a frown, "Died. Died? How?." 

"Hepatitis. She passed away the night of the invasion." Crane's tone was clipped. 

"Did we do it?." the doctor asked in horror. 

Crane blinked. "Kill...oh, the bombing. No, she was dead before we hit the beaches." 

"Was Owen there?" Jamieson persisted, putting a stinging lotion on Crane's foot. "When she died?" 

Lee flinched "Owen? No. I was there." 

,Jamieson unwrapped a bandage. "Want to tell me about it?." 

"Not really. Not now." 

"Got an address where l can send flowers for the funeral?." 

Crane reddened. "I told Reg to get in touch when the arrangements were made." 

"He won't," Jamieson said decisively. "He'll try to get as far away freeze everyone as he can."

"That's going to be difficult," Crane commented. "Because I'm going to ask if he can be assigned to MMR." 

Jamieson paused for a second, then grinned. "That will stir up the old place. I might even ask for shore duty to watch the fireworks." 

"Of course, that means he'll have to be on active duty again," Crane said thoughtfully. "I'll work it out." 

"The Admiral will help you there. He likes Owen." Jamieson tucked in the end of the bandage. "Let me get you that shoe."


	17. November 14, 1983

Owen paused for a second in front of the door to Colonel Pardimous' office. He looked down at his neat dark civilian suit, made sure his tie was straight, and his long hair combed back, then knocked. The secretary seated at the desk outside the office was studiously ignoring him. 

"Come in." 

Owen pushed open the door, then went inside. 

The huge man looked up, then stood, dwarfing the pine desk. "Owen. Nice to see you again.” 

“You too, sir," Owen said uncomfortably. The other times he'd been in this office, he had been on the carpet for either performing actions outside of his duties, or because there had been some kind of complaint about the job he had done. Inevitably, he was absolved, but the encounters had left the usually self-assured officer skittish. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your loss," Pardimous said, waving him to sit down in one of the chairs. "You've taken your wife's remains home?" 

“Yes, sir. A couple of days after her death." It had been an uncomfortable service for Owen, made worse when, after the ceremony, he had finally cornered Katie's brothers for a talk. Their denial of being involved with the attack rang true, though he was still not convinced. He had never trusted either one of the men. He'd felt vast relief when his plane left Ireland, and swore he'd never go back. 

Orders had awaited his landing in London to report to Colonel Pardimous at Lympstone. 

“So, you're ready to resume your service?" Pardimous asked, picking up a sheet of paper and glancing at it. 

Owen hesitated. "Yes, sir." 

Pardimous shot him a questioning look. "You don't sound convincing, Major." 

“The doctors have qualified me--" 

“Despite the head wound and bruising you took in Grenada," Pardimous interrupted. "Yes, that was unfortunate." 

Owen could still feel a throb where the bullet had creased his scalp. "Yes, sir." 

The Colonel sighed and put down the sheet. "Well, this is unfortunate, in a way. When you took leave, for very legitimate reasons, we reassigned your men to another troop. I doubt that we can pull them back." 

Owen felt a sinking sensation. "Yes, sir." 

“And, your commander, Welch, also has some qualms about you." 

“Indeed, sir?" Owen's voice grew an edge of frost. 

Pardimous looked up from under his thick shaggy brows. "l don't agree with him. Commander- Welch's decisions are sometimes suspect. But, we sti1l have a problem." 

"Yes, sir?. " 

“Yes, what to do with you, Major." Pardimous rustled among the papers and pulled out a slick-coated facsimile sheet. "I have here the solution." 

"Sir " 

“A request. From the Americans." 

“The Americans!" Owen's voice was momentarily horrified. 

,”Yes, an American admiral has requested your services as...'liaison' from our submarine research and development area to theirs. I believe you know him." 

“Admiral Nelson?” 

"That's the name. How do you feel about that, Major?" Pardimous looked at him shrewdly, sensing discomfort. 

Owen thought for a minute, "I'm a special operations man, sir. I know very little about submarines." 

"He knows that. He assured both me and the Admiralty that your skills are very useful in Santa Barbara to...ah, 'raise the standards of the combat skills of the Seaview’s crew''." It is seconded by his captain, Crane." 

A snort escaped Owen. "What does that mean, sir?" 

"I don't know, but I'm sure you'll find out," Pardimous said with a touch of amusement. '*I checked your record, Owen, and found you and he have crossed paths before." 

"Yes, sir. In the Falklands." 

"And now in Grenada, if that report I received is true. Good work down there. I think it would be an excellent idea if you visited California for a little while, Owen. Just till we can get things straightened out here," the officer said firmly, 

Owen knew that he would probably never be coming back to active duty. That door was being shut firmly in his face. "May I have a little time to think about it, sir?" 

"Yes, you will want to discuss it with your mates," Pardimous agreed. "I believe the troop is here in town. I'll expect your reply this evening, Owen. Now, we probably can find you some other work here at headquarters but, from your record, you prefer active duty." 

Pushing paper, no doubt. Owen nodded understanding, and stood up, saluting despite the civilian clothing. "l understand, sir." 

"Dismissed." 

Outside, he turned up his collar against the ugly chill of the November weather. The city around him was dismal gray, with a heavy fog hiding the tops of the buildings. Raindrops dripped off awnings. 

The pub lights were a warm glow through the raw fog, and he headed for it like a drowning man for a beacon of safety. It had been a home away from home every time he'd come back to Lympstone, especially before he married. It was a lot more appetizing than the apartment he'd rented before, or the frigid hotel room that he was in now while he was winding up his affairs. He was looking forward to meeting the former members of his troop. 

Inside, the room was warm, with small sconce lights on the wood-paneled walls, and neat little booths which gave a modicum of privacy. The long bar ran the full length of the pub, bottles reflecting in the glass mirror. Being around half-past ten in the morning, it was only half-filled. 

"Owen!" A burly, wheaten-haired man waved from the back. 

Owen's face creased in a smile of relief. "Geoff!" He walked to the three men who sat in the booth 

They patted him on the shoulder, one man throwing a fake punch which Owen parried, then they all sat down 

"I'll have a pint," Owen ordered the barmaid who nodded to him, and disappeared. "And another round for my friends. Geoff Harrah, you look like the underbelly of a trout." 

"Look at the tan. You can see he hasn't been around here," Geoff teased, pointing a finger. 

"You can tell that from the perfume," the wiry dark man on one side said with an exaggerated sniff. "Is it flowers, then, Owen?" 

"And just look at the hair!" commented the crop-haired third man in an amused tone. 

"I like it long, Ian, and just because you can't tell a perfume from an aftershave, Jack Marker, doesn't mean I have to tell you the difference," Owen said amicably. "How are you doing, Jacko?" 

The man shrugged. "Not bad, not bad. We all got assigned to a nice troop after..." 

"Got a nice commander," Ian said quietly, "but it's not the same.” Silence fell for a second, disturbed only by the barmaid returning with the”- drinks. He sipped his beer, then licked the foam off his mustache. "So, you're back for good, Reg?" 

"Probably not, Ian," Owen said soberly. "They haven't quite made up their minds yet . They say they can't pull the troop together again." 

“That’s time’s past,” Jack agreed. “Why, Gratain here had to pay for his own drinks!” 

“I always bought you rounds, Jack,” Ian reproved lazily. A lock of straight dark hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back. “What have you got planned then, Reg?”

Owen took a long draft of his bitter before answering. “I’m not sure. They mentioned a headquarters job – “ 

“Oh, don't let them do that to you," Geoff said involuntarily. "That's for men like Welch. You’d miss the outdoor life.” 

“Welch. What happened to Welch?” Owen asked, not letting the importance of the reply reflect in his question.

"He's here in town. Been assigned to pushing papers and quartermaster duties. It's likely that he'll be in soon. Takes lunch here," Jack said. "Want to see him again, Reg?" 

Owen grimaced. “Not particularly.”

“Reg, I’m sorry abo9ut your wife,” Geoff cut in soberly. "It was a great pity She was a lovely girl." The other men nodded and murmured but Owen didn't hear them as memories overwhelmed him for a second. The men around him had been at the wedding as well. 

"Thank you," he said inadequately. "I…”

"It was because of the transfusion when you were shot, wasn't it?. " Jack questioned. “I thought I heard that straight.” 

"But, what I want to know, Reg, is why you left early to send Katie back that night?" Geoff said puzzled. "You know we were planning on going together. I couldn't ask you when you were hospital, and then you went off with her." 

Owen frowned. "None of you were there at the right time. She was going to miss her train, so we went alone." 

"We weren't over a quarter-hour behind you," Jock said with a scowl. 

"I sent a message," Geoff commented with a puzzled frown. "Told you to wait." 

"lf it hadn't been for Welch, we wouldn't have been late," Ian said in disgust. 

"If it hadn't been for Welch..." Owen said slowly. 

“He had something that he had to get from us. Said he'd already gotten it from you," Jack said shrewdly. “Had he, Reg?” 

Owen stared into the dark eyes seeing the same suspicions about Welch as he, himself, had. For all his acid prattle, Jack was an insightful man. "I signed some document just before I left. It wasn't particularly important." 

"It was important enough to make us late," Geoff said decisively. "And you nearly got killed." 

"But I don't think it was on purpose," Ian commented unexpectedly. "You know how Welch is; he wants every piece of paper in triplicate and filed in the correct place." 

"Did you ever find out who set it up?" Owen asked. 

Jack shook his head. "I asked all my contacts and no one admitted a thing. Even the ones on the other side said that it was a brutal thing guaranteed to bring trouble on every one." 

"Come on, Jack," Geoff scoffed. "You and I both know it had to be the Republicans. The IRA's always after an officer." 

"But the Protestants cover their tracks better," Ian said barely audibly. His gaze met Owen's. 

His lips barely moving, Owen asked, "Do you know? For sure!" 

Ian shook his head. 

"Well, look who's here," Jack said seeing the door open and close. "It's Colonel Welch." 

Owen's fist clenched suddenly on his glass. His knuckles whitened. 

Welch's eyes must have been adjusting to the light because he was halfway into the pub before he saw the quartet at the back, and faltered. His gaze went from one man to another, then stopped on Owen. 

"Colonel Welch." Owen shoved back his chair and stood up. 

Welch nodded, his back stiff. "Major Owen." 

"Have a seat, sir?" 

The man took an involuntary step back before catching himself. "I don't think so, not today. Nice to see you back, Owen." 

"I'd like to talk to you," Owen said, taking a step away from the table. 

Welch shot him a freezing glance that earned him a surprised looks from the other Marines in the room. The pub was the place where everyone could forget rank -- but not now. 

"I'm afraid I have a dinner engagement. If you would like to talk in my office, I'll be back there by one." Welch took a look around the quiet room, then turned and walked out. 

Jack whistled after the pub door closed. "Beat a retreat that fast and someone might call you a coward." 

"What do you want to ask him, Reg?" Ian questioned. - 

"Just personal matters," Owen said, settling back down in his chair, his eyes watching Welch's stiff figure as it waited outside to cross the crosswalk. 

"Personal?" Geoff asked. "Like a late train in Belfast " 

A screech of tires, a scream, and the gunning of an engine, and it was over in a second, before anyone could move, Owen had seen the bakery truck turn the corner and instead of slowing down, it had speeded up, hitting Welch directly as he crossed the zebra stripes, then crashed into another car in the intersection. The driver had jumped out of the front seat, and dashed down an alley out of the sight of the pub. 

Owen was the first man out the door with Jack close on his heels, the others following suit. Ian and Geoff took off after the driver. 

Welch was dead by the time they reached him, the small blue eyes staring at the sky. Rain started falling more heavily as Owen covered him with a cloth from the back of the bakery truck. 

"Well, that's that," he murmured forgetting Jack was next to him. 

"You could still check his files," Marker said seriously. "Check and see if he gave the order, Reg. He was your enemy; couldn't say a good thing after you left. He's probably gone after your record too." 

Owen looked at him slowly, his hair soaked in rain. "It wouldn't do any use, Jack. It would just rake up more bad feelings." 

"So, what do you plan on doing instead?." Jack asked. 

Ian and Geoff came panting up. "He got away," Ian wheezed. "They had a car waiting." 

"They?" 

"It's a classic IRA hit," Geoff said, 

"Oh, you think there s an Irishman under every bed," Jack scoffed. 

"There is one," his friend retorted. "Remember, I found one -- " 

"But why kill Welch?." Owen interrupted the familiar refrain. He'd heard Geoff’s story of the bomb-and-bomber-under-the-bed once too often. 

Ian shrugged. "Maybe he got on someone's nerves as well as ours, Reg. The word was he got on upper brass after you were shot, trying to make out that there was a traitor. The list as to who would want him gone stretches from here to the Isle of Wight." 

Owen remembered talking with Katie's brothers. Maybe they'd called out their friends in England, though it was a brave man who'd kill a Royal Marine officer in the heart of their training camp. 

Had Welch set him up back in Belfast? He suddenly realized he didn't particularly care anyway anymore. 

The e crowd parted as Pardimous came up . He glanced at the body, then shrugged. "Colonel Welch, I suspect. I suppose we'll have to have a police investigation." His tone was unenthusiastic. 

One of the brass who had been unimpressed by Welch, Owen thought. 

"In that case, we'd better have a drink,” Jack said under his breath. "Maybe several." 

"Owen?" 

"Sir?. " Owen, feeling more than slightly unnerved, looked up at Pardimous, who was almost smiling paternally. 

"I recommend you take that job I offered you." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well, let's finish the beer before you go," Geoff suggested practically "If the police want to find us, we'll be drinking inside the pub."


	18. November 30, 1983

Morton stopped by Crane's office. When does he arrive?" 

"I sent the car. It should be back any time," Crane said shuffling papers together into a heap. I'll give these to Lila, and we can go down." 

"Where's the Admiral?" 

"He's having a 'peace lunch' with Senator Dawber." 

Chip let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I know that the Admiral's been upset about losing his friendship. Hell, Senator Dawber knew that he couldn't disobey the president!" 

"They're going to the most expensive restaurant in town. The Senator told the Admiral that his doctor was horrified. All those fatty proteins and milk shakes." 

"Did he bring his assistant, Lee?. " 

Crane colored. "I'm told that when the Senator retired, Ms. Gable became a lobbyist in Washington." 

Morton grinned. "From that picture you showed me, she's the best-looking one in town." 

"No doubt. We're lucky there's a continent between us," Crane said in relief. "She'd be running the Institute if we let her in. Let's go down." 

"Are you sure this is what Owen wants, Lee?. " Chip questioned as he buttoned his jacket. 

"His CO thought it was the best solution," Crane said as he pulled on his uniform jacket. 

“He certainly didn't have much fun in the last few months," Morton said. "Funerals and so>" 

"He even attended Colonel Welch's funeral. I suppose Owen found out that he didn't sell him to the Protestants or the IRA," 

"That was a suspicious accident," Chip commented. "Right in the heart of the training camp. So, Welch did set him up?" 

"He didn't mention it. The IRA hasn't been exactly forthcoming. Nor are the Protestants. Owen didn't seem to care from what he told me. Said he was winding up a few last business dealings, then catching a flight here from London. I doubt Owen had any connection with the accident. It's not his style." 

Crane closed the door to his office, and handed the papers to his secretary, then he and Morton headed out, down the concrete steps to greet the unfamiliarly-uniformed officer stepped out of the NIMR car. 

"Major Owen?" Crane and Morton saluted him, and he saluted them back. Crane noticed that the hair was once again short. The Major was back on active duty. 

"Gentlemen." Owen's expression was tight and formal. It had obviously been a long trip, Crane concluded. Or the sending-off party was still present in the form of a hangover. 

"Welcome to Southern California, Major. We hope you like your duty at the Nelson Institute." 

"I hope so, too." Owen sounded dubious. 

Crane smiled. "Cheer up, Reg. It might actually be fun." 

Owen stared at him for a second, then laughed. "You're right, Lee. It could be."


	19. Timeline and Bibliography

Timeline 

 

In the beginning, Grenada was a huge uninhabited island in the Caribbean. It became a British 

colony, and in 19T4, it became an autonomous member of the British Commonwealth, under prime 

minister Eric Gairy (who was viewed negatively by many Grenadians). 

 

13 March 1979. Gairy, on a trip out of Grenada, is overthrown and a People's Revolutionary 

Government CPRG) proclaimed under Maurice Bishop. 

September 1983: Bishop, who wanted to be friendly with the United States, has a falling out with the 

Dep. Prime Minister Coard, who was supported by the Soviet Bloc. 

13 0ctober l983. Bishop is arrested by Coard and imprisoned . A week of marches, arrests and 

detentions begin. 

 

14 October 1983: The US National Security Council orders the Joint Chiefs to begin planning an evacuation of Americans from Grenada. 

 

18th October 1983: Washington sends formal note asking for assurances of safety of the Americans 

19th October 1983: Bishop, after being momentarily freed by rioters or "thousands of supporters"), is executed by Coard. Members of the "People's Revolutionary Army" take them inside the Fort Rupert and shoot him alongside with three members of his cabinet and two labor leaders. The troops also opens fire on the crowd, killing at least fifty and injuring many more. 

Bish, the US Ambassador in Barbados, sends a message saying to Washington saying there is “imminent danger to US citizens" on Grenada from "rioting...automatic weapons being discharged, Soviet-built armored personal carriers in the Grenadian streets and some loss of water and electricity on the island." The Grenadian Ministry of External Affairs response to US that "The interests of US citizens are in no way threatened by the present situation in Grenada which the Ministry hastens to point out is a purely internal matter." 

 

20 October 1983: the Joint Chiefs meet to discuss action and a decision to produce detailed plans is made. Total operation security is imposed and there is a fear the media will discover what is being planned. 

21 October 1983. the Marines on their way to Lebanon are ordered to divert to the coast of Grenada 

 

22 0ctober 1983: a pair from the US Embassy in Barbados reach Grenada and find a 24-hour shoot-on-sight curfew, jailed journalists and officials, Pearls airport closed and telephone and telex links cut. 

 

23 0ctober 1983. 237 Marines are killed in their barracks in Lebanon 

24 0ctober 1983: The Viet Nam Heroico, a Cuban vessel, pulls out to sea "hours before the invasion". There is later speculation that it carries Cuban troops as well as hard-line members of the Government. Supposedly, a letter from Sir. Paul Scoon, the Gov. General of Grenada, arrives in Washington asking for assistance, but it is suspected of being a fake. 

Bibliography 

 

Newspapers Magazines 

 

The New York Times, Maclean's, National Geographic, USA Today, Wall Street Journal 

Black Enterprise, September 1993. 

Salt Water Sportsman, September 1994. 

Travel Holiday, November 1993, pp.43-48 

 

Books 

 

Facts on File, 1983. 

Political Handbook of the World 1994-1995 

Foster, Nigel, The Making of a Royal Commando, (CA: Presidio, 1988). 

Fowler, William, The Royal Marines, 11956-84 (London: Osprey Men-at-Arms series, 1984). 

Markham, George, Guns of the Elite (NY: Arms and Armour Press, 1987). 

Merck-Manual 1992 

O'Shaughnessy, Hugh., Grenada: an eyewitness account of the US Invasion and the Caribbean and the history that provoked it (Dodd, Mead Company, Inc., 1984). 

Rivers, Gayle., The Specialist (New York: Stein and Day, 1985) 

Sandford, Gregory, Grenada: the untold story. (London: Madison Books, 1984). 

The World Book Encyclopedia, (Chicago: World Book, Inc. 1991)


	20. Irish notes - Bibliography - Timeline

lrish Notes 

As with anything dealing with the "Troubles" in Northern Ireland,I'd recommend a book called "Too Long a Sacrifice" or any other book on the "Troubles." I've never found a book on the topic without some kind of bias so I recommend you check various sources if you're stiIl interested. Everyone has an opinion. 

With any luck, the current truce in Northern Ireland will become a lasting peace. 

 

Bibliography 

Newspapers Magazines 

The New York Times, Maclean's, National Geographic, USA Today, Wall Street Journal 

Black Enterprise, September 1993. 

Salt Water Sportsman, September 1994. 

Travel Holiday, November 1993, pp.43-48 

Books 

Facts on File, 1983. 

Political Handbook of the World 1994-1995 

Foster, Nigel, The Making of a Royal Commando, (CA: Presidio, 1988). 

Fowler, William, The Royal Marines, 11956-84 (London: Osprey Men-at-Arms series, 1984). 

Markham, George, Guns of the Elite (NY: Arms and Armour Press, 1987). 

Merck-Manual 1992 

O'Shaughnessy, Hugh., Grenada: an eyewitness account of the US Invasion and the Caribbean and the history that provoked it : Dodd, Mead Company, Inc., 1984). 

Rivers, Gayle., The Specialist (New York: Stein and Day, 1985) 

Sandford, Gregory, Grenada: the untold story. (London: Madison Books, 1984). 

The World Book Encyclopedia, (Chicago: World Book, Inc. 1991) 

Timeline  
   
In the beginning, Grenada was a huge uninhabited island in the Caribbean. It became a British  
colony, and became an autonomous member of the British Commonwealth, under Prime Minister Eric Gairy (who was viewed negatively by many Grenadians). 

13 March 1979. Gairy, on a trip out of Grenada, is overthrown and a People's Revolutionary  
Government CPRG) proclaimed under Maurice Bishop. 

September 1983: Bishop, who wanted to be friendly with the United States, has a falling out with the Dep. Prime Minister Coard, who was supported by the Soviet Bloc. 

13 October l983. Bishop is arrested by Coard and imprisoned . A week of marches, arrests and  
detentions begin. 

14 October 1983: The US National Security Council orders the Joint Chiefs to begin planning an evacuation of Americans from Grenada. 

18th October 1983: Washington sends formal note asking for assurances of safety of the Americans 

19th October 1983: Bishop, after being momentarily freed by rioters or "thousands of supporters"), is executed by Coard. Members of the "People's Revolutionary Army" take them inside the Fort Rupert and shoot him alongside with three members of his cabinet and two labor leaders. The troops also opens fire on the crowd, killing at least fifty and injuring many more. 

Bish, the US Ambassador in Barbados, sends a message saying to Washington saying there is “imminent danger to US citizens" on Grenada from "rioting...automatic weapons being discharged, Soviet-built armored personal carriers in the Grenadian streets and some loss of water and electricity on the island." The Grenadian Ministry of External Affairs response to US that "The interests of US citizens are in no way threatened by the present situation in Grenada which the Ministry hastens to point out is a purely internal matter." 

20 October 1983: the Joint Chiefs meet to discuss action and a decision to produce detailed plans is made. Total operation security is imposed and there is a fear the media will discover what is being planned. 

21 October 1983. the Marines on their way to Lebanon are ordered to divert to the coast of Grenada 

22 October 1983: a pair from the US Embassy in Barbados reach Grenada and find a 24-hour shoot-on-sight curfew, jailed journalists and officials, Pearls airport closed and telephone and telex links cut. 

23 October 1983. 237 Marines are killed in their barracks in Lebanon 

24 October 1983: The _Viet Nam Heroico_ , a Cuban vessel, pulls out to sea "hours before the invasion". There is later speculation that it carries Cuban troops as well as hard-line members of the Government. 

2S October 1983: The US invades Grenada. The US intervenes and restores order. A provisional administration under Nicholas Brathwaite is established until Blaise is elected prime minster of a new parliament on 4 December l984. 

16 October 1983: the American medical students at Grand Anse are rescued 

13 December 1983: the last of the US combat troops that actually fought in Grenada return home. An interim force remains till early 1984.


End file.
